The Vacant Sands
by Tinkerpanda
Summary: A case hits close to home for Sam when one of his army buddies has a hard time adjusting back to life in Canada.
1. Good Ol' Days

Disclaimer: I don't own flashpoint. If I did I wouldn't be spending mad chedda getting a degree in art history. Just sayin'.

AN: I wasn't going to post this until after I'd had a chance to plan where it was going and get a few more chapters down on my other fic. But, lets be brutally honest, I don't have the patience.

Two thing. Firstly I'm making up a base. I know Toronto doesn't an army base. Closest is Kingston (which is where Hugh Dillon - luff - is from). So I took some liberties and made one up. Secondly the first couple chapters are going to be set throughout the third season. Just to avoid some confusion. Chapter One is set the night before "Coming to You Live." Yeah. Jules' may think Sam's blonde, brunette and redhead were svelte little brainless bimbos, but I'm casting them as a half-blind army tech, a troubled soldier and an jovial ginger teammate.

I love getting reviews - they legitimately make my day. So leave me a comment. Leave me criticism, rants, message. Whatever.

* * *

Sam sauntered into the dive bar, heading straight for the counter. He ordered a beer, on tap. He turned to survey the bar. It was the very definition of skeezy, which must have been why they chose it.

"Braddock!" A voice exclaimed, clapping him heartily on the back.

He grinned enormously. "Bear, you bastard. Where the hell have you been." He grabbed the towering man in a gruff bear hug. "You made it back from the sands all right then?"

"Yeah, yeah. Zeb's here – he's staking a claim on the pool table. Specs too." Daniel Hartford, alias Bear, nodded to the dimly lit corner of the bar where two men lay arguring over pool cues.

"You left them alone together? Jesus. Good thing you chose Filthy McNasty's here. When they destroy something at least it won't be expensive to replace. This has to be the worst dive I've been to since that joint in Calgary."

"What?" Bear asked absently, scratching a hand over his closely cropped red hair. At the pool table the two men had resorted to a pushing match, their similarly buzzed heads gleaming brown under the shady lighting. "Oh yeah. The place with the stripper. Candy? I think it's name Candy."

"Only the stripper had a second pole, if you catch my drift." Sam laughed at the memory. "That must've been Zeb's bachelor party."

"Sure was." Bear sighed wistfully. "About that though." His voice trailed off.

Sam glanced over sharply. "What? Something wrong?"

"Yes. No. Sort of. Not exactly. He and Katherine. They didn't make it. I wouldn't bring her up, that's all." Bear lifted a hand to order another round.

"No? Really? I thought she'd be the type to stick. You get to learn the type pretty quickly. She seemed pretty solid." Sam was surprised. And a little saddened.

"I know. She grew up military. She understands. But it wasn't her. It was him. He came back and … he hadsn't been the same. After Dave did himself in … we lost Knuckles in a roadside and Jonesy isn't ever going to be the same."

"Yeah I saw him." Sam swallowed dryly. Jones had come back two limbs short, mentally broken from his loss. He was struggling. Every day was a struggle for him. He was coming around though, making progress with his prosthetic. He was starting to work with, instead of against, himself.

"Anyway. We got back and Zeb just cracked. I just know that something bad happened between them. I saw them just a few days after he came back. They couldn't even look at each other. He went a little crazy. I don't really know all the details."

"He hurt her?" Sam asked. He hoped not. Zeb was like his brother. He couldn't imagine him hurting Kate – they'd been so in love. But war did crazy things to people. And Zeb had never been good at holding his alcohol. He and Specs were currently swinging at one another, scuffling and cursing.

"I don't think so. Not in the way you're thinking. I think he hurt her heart, but he didn't hit her or anything. Whatever. Lets not get into it." Bear shrugged it off. Zeb and Specs broke apart howling with laughter. "We're back from the sands all together – we should just raise some hell for the good ol' times, eh?"

"Yeah. For the good old days." Sam raised his glass.


	2. Got Nothing

Sam checked his watch. 3:30 AM. Christ. Shift started in another 5 hours. He'd stopped drinking at midnight so he'd be sober enough to survive the gym the next morning – god knew Ed would be maniacally hard on him, gruelling him through circuits if he showed up hung over.

Christopher St. James nicknamed Specs for his perpetual glasses, necessitated by what Sam could only describe as the world's worst vision, was passed out cold. He'd failed the military's entrance vision test. Straight up, there was no way Specs had passed the bloody thing. But he was damned brilliant with technology, and far too useful for the army to pass up. He'd been dying to get out of Winnipeg and the army had been dying to get him _into _Afghanistan. Now he'd downed a considerable amount of alcohol and was now proceeding to sleep it off in the passenger seat of Bear's truck, grinning happily in his alcohol-induced state.

Zeb, however, was not such a happy drunk. He never had been. That's why, during his time in the military with Sam, he'd rarely indulged. Anthony Smithson, codename Zeb for his hometown of Zeballos, got them all kicked out of the bar, a feat in itself given the general sketchiness of the establishment. Getting kicked out of Filthy's was like getting popsicles to freeze in hell; nearly impossible to manage but the results are quite memorable.

"You good to drive Bear?" Sam asked, grunting under Zeb's weight. The guy was built like a hummer and drunk enough not to be able to stand upright without assistance.

"Yeah. I'm sober as they come. Stopped drinking hours about the same time you did. I'm still hoping to crawl into bed with my Layla." Bear rolled his eyes. "Gonna drop Specs, but I should be home in time to shower off the cigarettes smoke and get a few hours sleep before she gets home from her sister's. She spent the weekend with Chloe in Niagara – last one before the baby's born."

"Say hi for me." Sam leaned Zeb up against Bear's Toyota and fished his keys out of his pocket.

"How're things going with your lady cop?" Bear asked. During their last reunion, before Zeb, Specs and Bear had been re-deployed to Afghanistan, they'd gotten blind drunk and he'd stupidly admitted to them that he'd fallen for his co-worker, the every composed, ever beautiful Julianna Callaghan.

"Yeah. She dumped me. Came down to me or the job. I lost." Sam hoisted an arm around Zeb again, preparing to lead him back to his own car, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Bear said, surprisingly genuine. Sam stopped, looking up, a frown furrowing his brow. "I know we railed on you about it. But that's just who we are. I thought … I thought she was good for you. You looked happy. I think that after all we had to do we deserve to be happy."

Sam nodded. That's all that needed to be said between them.

* * *

Sam pulled to a stop outside the address Zeb had given him.

He glanced over in confusion.

"The Eagle's Nest Motel? Zeb, I thought you had an apartment." Sam peered through the windshield. The motel was run down, a highway-side double-storied lodge from the 1970s. He could practically envision the wall-to-wall shag carpeting.

"Can't go back there." Zeb snorted from the passenger side as Sam idled to a stop.

"No?" Sam asked.

"Memories. Can't sleep at night." Zeb grunted. "I can't go back there. Not without Katie. She's gone. You hear that? I bet Bear told you. Yeah. Rotten bastard." He said, without an inch of conviction. "She bailed hard after my last deployment and I can't fucking stand to be in that house without her. It's so … Katie. It looks like her, it smells like her. Every single little thing about it is so fucking _Katie._" He struggled to open the door, his hand drunkenly missing the lock mechanism.

Sam frowned. It was hard. Coming back, most people just don't understand. The only people you have are the brothers who served alongside you. The men who fought with you every step of the way, the people who suffered and risked their lives with you.

Zeb finally managed to catch the lever, stumbling to his feet in the parking lot. "You know. Everyone has their reason for going out there and doing what we do. Everyone has that person they're there to protect – the one that keeps them sane and makes them push through. The person they think about when they ask themselves what the hell they're doing out in the fucking hellhole, boiling hot, bombs going off and people dying. The person that, when you're forced to kill a child soldier, you think about." Zeb's voice sounded gravely angry. "We risked everything. And then you come back and nothings the same. She just gave up – she just _left. _You know what you got when you don't have that reason anymore? Nothing, Sam. You got _nothing_." He slammed the door viciously.

He stumbled towards a ground-level door leaving Sam at a loss for words.

* * *

AN: I know. Shortest. Chapter. Ever. I got an exam tomorrow, however, on Renaissance masters. But I'm hoping to get out another update later in the week that's a bit longer.

And yeah, I did hit up the Sam/Jules angsty unrequited love routine. I'm cheesy like that. :D


	3. Personal Stuff

_1 … 2 … _

Sam vacantly counted off rounds in his heads. The jolt of the muscles as his gun kicked back in his hand was soothing and familiar.

_3… 4… 5 _

Couldn't go home yet.

_6 …_

He was just a little jumpy still, still a little worked up. He needed to blow off some steam. Gun range, maybe hit the gym for a little while. Exhaust himself, go home, fall asleep with his shoes on.

_7 … 8 … _

He wondered if SIU was done with Jules yet.

_9 … 10 … 11… 12… _

He checked the barrel of his gun, hitting the button to bring his target sheet forward. A spattering of holes ripped through the centre of the target, clustered in the central ring. He'd always been a good shot.

_The first time he'd held a gun, felt that singing rush as you release the trigger, he'd been nine years old. His father, despite his mother's insistence that he was too young, had taken him out to an open-air civilian range near the base they'd been stationed at in Saudi. That way if he was as bad as his father presumed he would be nobody else would have to see. The ear muffs were made for an adult and kept slipping around his head. He looked over his shoulder at his father, standing rigidly behind him. His Dad had shown him the proper grip, the proper stance. He'd told him to close his weak eye, training his eye on his target – a small patch mid-chest. He focused on the dark human-shaped shadow at the end of the wall._

_He yanked the trigger. His arms sang as the recoil rocked his gawky frame. He was small for his age, which was a constant disappointment for General Braddock. He couldn't have a weakling for a son. Hence the nightly routine of calcium and minerals and vitamin tablets forced upon him and the seemingly bottomless amounts of milk. To this day Sam hated milk. He despised the damned taste of it. He could remember his father sitting down at the kitchen table with a half-empty jug and demanding Sam finish it. He'd never grow to be big and tall and strong without a healthy dose of milk._

_The paper figure waved slightly, a bullet tearing through the white corner. His heart sank. He hadn't hit the target – not even close._

"_Don't yank the trigger. Don't just squeeze it." His father ordered shortly. _

_Sam raised the pistol again, retraining his eye on the target. The shock as the gun jumped in his hands when the bullet rocketed out, nearly wrenching the weapon from his hands._

_The paper didn't move at all. He missed the target altogether._

_His father made a sound of disgust._

_The frustration rose within his chest. The rage engulfed him. He wanted to walk away. He wanted to throw the gun down and storm off. He didn't want to do this anymore. He hated the military, he hated guns and he hated his stupid father. He wanted to be anyone else but himself._

_A breeze rippled through the course, sending the paper flutter. It bristled over his cropped hair – his father insisted it stay buzzed militarily short. Grains of sand whipped through the air, pelting his face and bare arms. The sun glared off the whiteness of the target. It's strong rays didn't emit a gentle warmth, just a broiling harsh heat that radiated off every surface._

_Sam lined up his shoulders, bracing his feet again. He stopped breathing. His shaking hands, barely large enough to properly grip the strange instrument, steadied. The wind died and the paper fell flat again, coming into sharp focus. The sounds of the range faded. There was nothing but him and the target._

_His bullet hit the target. Then another and another and another until the clip was completely emptied and the gun only clicked when he pulled the trigger. His father signalled to the range employee to have the target retrieved._

_Mesmerized he glanced down at the glock in his hands. There was something strangely liberating about it, something dark and addictive. The way his mind cleared, the way the gun bucked in his hand, the sight of the paper rippling with each shot. His father clapped a proud hand over his shoulder as he studied the paper and its eight perfect little holes._

"_You're a natural, Samuel." His father commended him, taking the weapon and reloading it. "Finally good at something important."_

Sam was snapped out of his memory by the buzzing of his cellphone. He hurriedly answered the phone.

"Yes?" He snapped. "Braddock."

"Hey, it's Bear." Responded a deep gravelly voice on the other end. "Is now an okay time?"

"Yeah, sure. Now's fine. I'm just at headquarters finishing up at the range." Sam responded.

"Yeah. Saw you on TV today. Busting down a drug-rehabilitation centre turned polygamist cult. Keeping the lemmings from the Kool-Aid." Bear joked.

Sam couldn't help the grin. He braced the phone against his shoulder as he strode back to the gun locker and stored his weapon.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah – I wasn't paying much attention until Layla pointed out your dumb ass in the background handcuffing some punk-ass farmer in plaid." Bear laughed. "I have to say. You look, if possible, even more Aryan on television."

"Whatever, ginge." Sam's platinum hair and blue eyes had made him a target for his team's playful banter during his time in the Joint Task Force. When Bear met him on their first day of training, Bear had cracked that a nation of Samuel Braddocks would've been a Nazi's wetdream. Sam responded that a nation of men like Bear would've sent women into a state of permanent celibacy.

"I heard there were a couple fatalities. Any of them yours?" Bear inquired.

"No." Sam answered, raising a hand to rub the back of his neck. Yeah, that was the real reason he was still there. "One suicide. Jules shot the other. We're still waiting for her to get back from the interview with the internal affairs."

There was a pause on the other end. "How's she taking it?" Bear asked.

"She's a rock." Sam smiled. "What's up? Why'd you call?"

"We got some news today." Bear responded slowly. "I'm getting redeployed soon. Heading back to Afghanistan. Boom, Specs and Chips too. We gotta finish our tour."

"Wow. That's fast." It seemed liked they'd only been back a few weeks.

"We got our leave early because of the roadside bomb. We always knew we'd be going back."

"How soon?" Sam paused. "You gonna be here when the baby's born?"

"Maybe. I mean. It's possible. Getting shipped out in three weeks. Baby's due at the end of the month. I'm hoping but … you know how it is. Life of a soldier." Bear's gruff voice was filled with unspoken resentment.

"I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do for you or Layla…"

"Thanks Braddock. But that's not entirely why I called. Me and the rest of the boys are getting shipped out – along with the rookies. But I don't think Zeb's going to make it. He failed the mental evaluation. It's not looking good for him being able to finish up the tour. He got in a physical fight with one of the commanding officers last week. There's been some rumblings about him getting discharged."

Sam dropped down onto the bench. "Yeah?" He asked weakly. "Jesus Christ." He swore. That wasn't good. He'd just lost his wife – he needed stability. Losing the army would be a devastating blow. It was all Zeb had left at this point. "How's he taking it?"

"As expected. Drowning his sorrows in whisky. He's pissed at the world. He isn't talking to me or the boys much – he's angry at us for passing the tests. I just figured. You should know. We gotta look out for each other. If he knew that there was life outside the army it might help him some." Bear added hopefully. "Maybe you could talk to him. Let him know that things end up okay."

"I can try." Sam said wearily. He nodded to Wordy and Spike as they entered the locker room. "I'll give it a shot, but no guarantees."

Bear gave a sigh of relief. "Yeah. No guarantees. I'll see you again soon. We'll have a drink before I deploy. I think Zeb's been staying out at the Eagle's Nest. If he's not there I'd check Iron Duke or Brew. He's been hanging out there a lot."

"Sure. I'll swing by after I'm done here. Bye Bear." He muttered, clicking his phone shut.

"Bear? _Bear? _What kinda strange ass endearment is that?" Ed teased. "Is that what you young people are calling your girlfriends these days? Short for sugar-bear? Honey-bear maybe?" Sam snorted violently.

Leah's head popped around the door. "Jules is back." She announced. "Everything went well with the SIU. She's got the all clear and she's just getting changed right now. We're heading to The Brass for a beer. Anyone else want in?"

Sam gave a nonchalant shrug, hearing the others agree. He wanted to – he would definitely rather spend a night with his SRU teammates than tracking down a rouge and likely inebriated Zeb. But some things just had to be done.

He jogged down the stairs and rounding the corner nearly plowed through Jules.

"Hey" She smiled a little unsurely. "That was quick."

Sam gave her a quick study. She looked calm and surprisingly normal. But then again Jules was a practiced champion at hiding emotions. There was just little signs – a twitch of her jaw, the way she scuffed her left shoe across the concrete floor, the way her hand fiddled with the strap of her bag. Nobody shoots somebody and doesn't feel anything, not even the esteemed constable Callaghan.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure. He was going to shoot you guys. So I didn't really have a choice." Jules responded.

"Still sucks." Sam gave her a crooked grin. "Good shot though."

"You coming for a beer?" She glanced down the long hallway to where the rest of the team was starting to gather.

"No." Sam gave an inward sigh. "I've got some personal stuff."

Jules frowned. That was highly unusual. The team usually liked to go out after a hard call – it was a soothing habit. It may have seemed trivial but it was an act of solidarity and family to show support. Sam was skipping out on it?

_Personal stuff? _She wondered, almost bitterly, about what _personal stuff_ entailed. _Back off Jules. None of your business anymore. _She cautioned herself. Stopped being your business months ago.

"Sure. It's been a long day." Jules smiled. It didn't quiet reach her eyes.

"Well. See you tomorrow." He excused himself, heading towards the parking lot.

The rest of the team surrounded her.

"Where's Sam going?" Leah asked, frowning at her retreating teammate's back. "Isn't he coming?"

"No." Jules responded, shrugging a shoulder absently. "He said he's got some personal stuff to deal with. I guess he had plans."

"Yeah. Heard him talking to somebody on the phone earlier. Called her _pookey-bear _or _sweetie-bear _or something mushy." Ed sneered.

Spike chuckled while Wordy rolled his eyes. Jules stomach clenched painfully.

"Sam's got a girlfriend." Spike teased in a sing-songy voice. Jules felt like she'd been punched. "It's been far too long since Sammy's had a lady-friend."

Not long enough, in Jules' opinion. She forced herself to swallow, keeping a disinterested look on her face. She clawed her hand into her purse, ruthlessly searching for her keys. She found herself desperately wanting to get away – away from this chatter about Sam and other women.

"At least we're getting blown off for a hot blonde with mile-high legs and not a six-pack and extra-large pepperoni pizza with an army buddy." She said lightly. Ed barked out a laugh.

"Why do you say that?" Greg interjected, curiously.

"Sam's got a type, Sarge. A very specific type." She grimly replied. "All right. Who wants to buy the first round?" Her voice was overly and falsely bright, as the team, minus one, strode out the front doors.

* * *

AN: First off - thank you so much for the reviews - they were a joy to read. You guys are amazing.

Flashback in Italics - as I'm prone to doing. I've been fiddling and edit this chapter for a few days now. I'm not thrilled with it. But the story needs to start rolling again. I had school and exams and travel and stuff, which is why there was such a long delay. Updates should be more regular soon. Yeah!


	4. His Side

_Hey - I feel like it's been a long enough absense that I should explain. I kinda had to do a complete re-write on this story. I had something different planned, but my story followed some real-life events at CFB Trenton a little to closely for comfort. So this isn't what I originally planned, but I hope you guys will still like it._

_Mad love to anyone who reviews._

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o..o.o.o.o.o

Sam slid across the worn, buttery leather of a corner booth of the Golden Griddle Café. He sat for a moment, idly watching pedestrians trickle by the window, casually glancing at his wristwatch. It was 6:00AM on a Saturday morning. The city, usually bristling with an aggressive energy, mellowed on these early weekends, the grinding sounds of traffic and urban life giving way to the softer, gentler tones of spring. Sam casually unzipped his windbreaker, balling it and tossing it into the unoccupied corner of the booth.

The waitress, a maternal looking woman in her mid-fifties, meandered through the mostly empty restaurant to where he sat. He ordered coffee. He could wait.

It had been a strange week, culminating in the hostage situation yesterday where Greg Parker had been abducted. The team had to rescue one of their own. They had felt the jolt of horror and fear that the people they helped feel. The sense of helpessness when a loved one was endangered. The incident yesterday was what prompted him to do this: life was too goddamned _short_.

The bells above the door jingled, following by the sharp clicks of stilettos on linoleum.

Sam grinned to himself before turning to face the new arrival. Long legs led up to a grey pencil skirt, a white blouse tucked into the waistband, the top pair of buttons undone in the spring air. A pair of dark glasses was looped carelessly through the open vee of the collar. If it had been anyone else Sam might have stopped to appreciate the view.

"Katie." He smiled and rose to his feet.

"Sam." She responded warmly, brushing a casual kiss across his cheek. "It's wonderful to see you again." She slid into the booth, smoothing back dark, wavy hair. She had lost weight, which Sam considered highly unfortunate as she'd been far too thin in the first place. And beneath the careful layer of makeup, he could see the markings of dark circles around her eyes. Whereas Zeb wore his hurt in the open, raw and angry, she hid it under a slick layer of polish and sheen. But it was still there, eating away at her.

"Good to see you too." He responded easily. He stretched his legs beneath the table. "Been a while, Kitty Kat. What have you been up to?"

"Oh. This, that and the other. Heading in to work a little later – my boss is a complete dragon bitch. She drives me mental." She fiddled with the strap of her purse. The waitress reappeared to fill Sam's cup and Katie gratefully extended her cup, allowing the woman to fill it. She rolled her eyes as Sam ripped open four packets of sugar and dumped them in his mug.

"That much sugar you might as well eat a chocolate bar, Braddock." She sipped her black coffee, grinning slightly. Some things just didn't change.

"Still working at the publishing company trying to discover the next Hemmingway?" Sam asked.

Katie sighed. "I wish. The senior editor has me on the lookout for the next Twilight." At Sam's blank look of confusion Katie just shook her head. "Nevermind. Ignorance truly is bliss in this case."

There was a moment of silence. A long, drawn out silence.

They both knew what was coming. It was implicit in their meeting.

"I'm a little surprised you called, Sam. I haven't seen you since you were discharged last year. I suppose you want to know what happened with Anthony don't you?" Katie asked. Her hand strayed over her stomach, pressed against the muscles that tightened, unconsciously, when she said her husband's name.

"If you want to tell me." Sam responded. His heart was beating out of his chest but he knew better than to pressure Katie.

She sat, completely still for a minute. She cursed herself when her hand shook, reaching for her cup.

"He was discharged last week. They're setting him lose." Sam said.

"I'm sorry to hear that." She genuinely was. The army - more specifically the men in it - meant the world to Zeb. He loved them like family.

"He's a mess, Katie. He's a complete fucking mess."

"I don't know what to say. You wouldn't understand, Sam. Everyone else just … They just turned on me, I guess. The women I called my friends, my neighbours. They looked at me with such disgust when I left. They won't talk to me. Nobody will. It's like five years of my life has been completely erased. I had to start over from scratch, Sam. "

"I know all about that." He reminded her softly.

She blinked twice. "Yes, I suppose you do."

Sam frowned. "Getting out wasn't easy. I carry around the guilt of what happened to Matt all the time. I had to start over too. No friends, no home, a slim hope of a job I was a hopelessly awful at. I still wake up and check the morning paper every morning for the names of my crew – the brothers I trained with. But I can't be one of them anymore. To a lot of them, I'm just the bastard that abandoned them. And I'm lucky that Bear and Specs and Zeb have been so damned understanding. Others haven't been. A generals' son, mired by friendly fire, bails out to the SRU? We all know what people said about it. So don't tell me I don't know what it's like."

Katie fiddled with her hands, clenching and unclenching her small fists. "It's just … Military wives are supposed to stick by their men. They're supposed to focus all their energy, sacrifice everything so their men can go die in some foreign hell hole. So that they can make the ultimate sacrifice of service. It's bullshit Sam." She fumed angrily. "I couldn't do it anymore. Things just … changed. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be there. "

"I was in the army. I was an army-brat. You get bounced around. I've seen my fair share of marriages fall apart. It's hard. But if you love each other you make it work." Sam insisted. "Do you love Anthony?"

"Of course. But it's complicated Sam." Katie insisted. "Sometimes love isn't enough."

"Really Katie? I've always thought that was something people said to rationalize running away. I know it's rough. Zeb's not the easiest guy. But just giving up on it all? He comes home and within a couple weeks you've left him? Katie, you know that's not fair." Sam leaned across the table.

Katie pushed back from the table angrily. "I should have known you'd take his side. Everyone else did."

Sam interrupted. "I'm not taking sides. I'm just trying to help you Katie."

"I needed him." Katie burst out, furiously. "I needed him and he couldn't be there. I hadn't heard from him since he deployed. There were no communications. And I desperately needed his help. And when he got back neither one of us could look at the other. He's always angry. And I couldn't deal with it anymore. I love him. But I can't fix him. And I can't watch him destroy himself either."

They sat in silence once more.

"So. Yeah. I do love him. But, you're wrong, it just isn't enough. This isn't something we can get over or move past." Katie drained the remainder of her coffee, setting it back down on the saucer with a distinct 'clink'.

She rose to her feet, throwing a bill on the table.

"It's good to see you Sam." She said earnestly.

Sam nodded, turning back to stare absently out the window as the staccato beat of her heels on the floor faded.

He knew what it was like to love someone – to need them in a way that they couldn't understand or give you. He hated that he did. Sometimes you knew what you wanted but you just couldn't have it.

He could hear the low buzzing of his phone – he shoved his hand in his pocket and fished out his cell, flipping it open. Jules' face filled the screen .

_Jules (Home) _the phone read.

If only, he snorted absently, swinging out of the booth. If _only_.


	5. Push Forward

Sam knocked soft on the motel door. It was early and if I imagined correctly Zeb would be incredibly, terribly, unfortunately hung over. The boy was shit at holding his liquor.

There was no answer, unsurpsingly. But when Sam tested the door he found the lock was disengaged, swinging easily open. A wave of stale air hit him, reeking of alcohol. He squared his shoulders and prepared for what would be one of the hardest battles of his life.

"Hey." He peered into the darkness of the room. A groan came in response. Zeb lay sprawled crosswise across the bed, legs dangling off the edge from the knees. His blonde hair, cropped militarily short, glistened in the suns' rays, streaming in through the breaks in the blinds. Sam knew he kept his hair buzzed out of pure habit. It had taken him a while to break the habit himself.

"Later you sadistic son of a bitch. The sun's still up." Zeb rolled over, his gruff, grumpy tone muffled by the dense pillows.

He strode around the room, taking in the cheap décor. The musky scent typical to such establishments. "You hear they're tearing down Godwin arena today? Shame. I remember seeing the leafs play there as a kid. Loved it."

"The leafs suck." Zeb muttered.

"Sure." Snorted Sam. "When was the last time the Canucks won a Stanley? And don't go saying 1914 because the Vancouver Millionaires REALLY don't count."

"Whatever." Zeb rolled over groggily, yawning widely. He absently reached for the empty bottle on the floor beside his head, lifting it to his dry lips.

"Zeb it's 7:30 in the morning." Sam spoke softly.

"I know." Zeb responded, shaking the bottle in hopes of finding a splash hidden in the bottom.

"Zeb you've got to stop this." Sam said in all seriousness. "Zeb you've got to stop. You're going to kill yourself if you keep this up."

"Who'd give a shit?" Zeb answered sleepily.

Sam strode forward, stopping uneasily by the bed. "We would. Me and Bear and Specs and the rest of the unit. Christ Zeb. Haven't we all be through enough? Losing Matt and Dave and Knuckles? The bomb that took Jonesy's legs? Don't you think we've all suffered enough. Don't do this to yourself."

"They don't give a shit about me." Zeb protested angrily, sitting up, finally.

"Yes they do. A unit's family for life, Zeb. For LIFE. We protected each other. We suffered through hell together – all of us. Nothing's going to change that. Nobody is going to feel any differently if you're done with the force, Zeb."

He flopped back on the bed, grunting angrily.

Sam swallowed his pride.

"Zeb. You know why I left?" Sam asked.

"'Cause your term was up?" Zeb responded blearily. "I don't know. To fuck over Daddy dearest's dream of grooming you into the next little general Braddock."

"No." Sam responded. "I left because I fucked up."

"What are you talking about?" Zeb asked, rising to sit again, running a hand over his severely buzzed hair. Sam recognized it as a sign he was nervous.

"Matt's death was friendly fire." Sam said quietly.

Zeb sat, shellshocked and silent. The moments ticked by. A drop of sweat slid down Sam's back. He'd never admitted it to anyone else on the unit. Never once. He couldn't stand what they would think of him. He'd betrayed them and killed one of their own. But Zeb needed to hear what Sam had to say. He needed to know there was life after the army.

"… You?" Zeb asked finally, his gravelly voice catching. Sam could say nothing. He nodded his answer.

Zeb stared vacantly.

"I got the order to fire. I did. I didn't know he was there. I still don't know why he was there. I just know that when they found his body it was my bullet that did it."

Zeb continued to gape.

"There was almost nothing left. He was my friend. He was practically my brother, for Christ's sake, and I sent him home in a body bag. I had to stand there at the funeral and pretend that nothing happened. His mother cried in my arms." Sam remembered. His chest tightened in the memory. He had to fight to draw in the shaky breath.

"Christ man." Zeb finally broke his silence. He reached forward, pulling Sam into a firm hug. He pounded a clenched fist to Sam's back.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Zeb asked, his voice shocked.

"I couldn't. The military wanted to keep it on the low. You know how they are with friendly fire. They'd rather play it off as insurgent fire. So they told me by no means was I to speak about what happened. They'd cut me an honorable discharge and I'd be free to do as I pleased."

"And you took it." Zeb noted.

Sam let out his held breath. "I had to. I just couldn't stay. I couldn't live there with the guilt of what happened. And I wanted to save people. I didn't want to kill people anymore. I didn't want to lie there on the desert floor with that scope for hours – shooting at targets miles away without really knowing what they were."

Zeb turned his head nodding grimly.

"I didn't want to tell you guys because, I guess, I thought you'd blame me. I already blamed myself. And I just couldn't lose you guys. You're the best friends I'd ever had. I couldn't stand to have you and Bear and the others look at me and think "There goes the bastard that shot Matt". I needed to get away, Zeb." Sam tried to explain, grappling for the words

"I needed to be at the SRU. I took the job because shooting's been the only thing I've ever been good at in my life. And I wanted to put it to good use. I wanted to save somebody. I needed to redeem myself. And I thought maybe, just maybe, I'd grow. Maybe I wouldn't just be the sniper anymore. And I'm not. I've found what I need to do with my life, Zeb. I just needed to be lost first."

Sam continued. "When I left the unit I was confused. And I was goddamned scared. I fucked up at the SRU. Badly and lots. I'm surprised they kept me on sometimes. I sucked at negotiating. And I couldn't or wouldn't change my impulses. But things get better. Life goes on. You can't keep clinging to the past. That's what let me move on. I wanted to. I desperately wanted to live. I wanted to be happy again. I'm not going to bullshit you. I still think about the unit. A lot. And I miss it. But I know that I'm more than just the army. I'm more than a uniform. We all are.

Zeb tilted his head back. Maybe it was wishful thinking but Sam thought he appeared to be contemplating his words. They sat in silence for some moments. Sam sighed, rising to his feet once again. Shift started in under twenty minutes. He had to get going. He brushed his clammy hands over the knees of his jeans before striding towards the door and wrenching it open. Sunlight streamed into the tiny room, lighting the swirling particles of dust that floated in the air. Zeb lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

Sam stopped "I just have to push forward and make sure I do the most I can do with my life. For Matt and myself. I'm not going to waste the rest of my life being angry or scared. You shouldn't either. If you need help you know you can call me."

With that he left, heart a little less heavy than when he had entered.

_AN: Hey guys - long time no see/updates. I've had some really intense few weeks with school and was, unfortunately, diagnosed with insomnia. Yeah. I know. It seems like I'd update MORE frequently if I'm not sleeping. Gotta do something with those 22 hours in a day I'm conscious. And honestly I tried to more often than not it would beyond terrible. I didn't want to post anything on this story that I didn't feel was really worthy of my readers. This isn't perfect by any means but I wanted to get the ball rolling again and I just didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer. Anyway, as usual I swear my eternal love and devotion in exchange for reviews. Thanks everyone for being so patient. Much love._


	6. Advil, Whiskey and Tomato Juice

Jules strummed long fingers against the hard frame of her steering wheel. She was, needless to say, concerned. It seemed like an appropriate response. One became concerned about their teammate and friends, right? Team was family. And when one family members cracks, you all crack, right? That's why she felt so raw inside today. So torn and jagged. It had nothing to do with her previous romantic engagement to one Samuel Arthur William Braddock. It had nothing to do with the thought that he might leave the SRU for good, Jules told herself. It had nothing to do with the fact that he'd be leaving the team or worse, leaving her.

No. She lifted the hand from the steering wheel and rubbed it over her thrumming heart. It swelled, painfully, at the remembrance of the previous day's events at Godwin stadium and headquarters afterwards. She pressed hard against it, as if she could will it to slow its painfully staccato rhythm against her chest.

She had known that something big had happened to Sam on his last mission to Afghanistan that had changed him – something to make him leave his unit. After all, military units were like teams too. You don't quit on family. She'd known it would have had to have been big for him to defy his father and leave the military. Yes, indeed, she'd known but she hadn't pushed it. Everyone at the SRU came with a past. And sometimes it was best to accept it and move on. That's what she'd erroneously done. Now she wished she hadn't.

Hearing his voice crack on the communicator yesterday when he admitted to shooting his comrade and friend had been heart-wrenchingly painful for her. Sam desperately wanted to help people. He desperately wanted to help that ONE person. And he couldn't reach him. The boy was too far gone. Darren was simply too far gone.

She'd had to watch Sam come to that painful realization in the briefing room. He'd wanted to save Darren for Matt. And maybe a little for himself. He knew what it was like to come home a "survivor", to come home whole and perfect on the outside, but injured and hurting on the inside. He'd returned without his best friend beside him. He'd lost the men he'd sworn to protect, his friends and brothers. The men he'd loved like family.

He felt like he'd failed that family – and he left them. But Jules would be damned if he'd leave his new one.

Spike had rapped shakily on the female locker room door. Leah had answered. Jules didn't have the energy to stand. But she'd heard his words.

_He cleared out his locker._

Fuck that. She thought now, as she had then. _Fuck that_.

She'd stormed back into the men's locker room, Leah scampering after her hastily buttoning her denim skirt. She could hear the shower blasting. She knew he'd been itching to cleanse away the blood. She clamped down on the urge to push past the other team members, into the showers, and angrily tell Sam that if he thought he was leaving he was _dead _wrong. The men watched silently as Jules wrenched his locker open, surveying the empty shelves. Her heart sank infinitely lower. The locker gaped at her hideously. It _mocked _her. She started down at the bulging gym bag that contained his things at the foot of the metal closet.

Hell if he'd leave. Hell if she'd _let _him, the asshole.

She heaved the bag up onto the bench, pulling the tabbed zipper down viciously. The other teammates looked at her with surprise. She carefully removed the photographs that lay on top, securing them back in position on the heavy metal doors with shaking hands. For a moment the team watched dumbfounded as she carefully replaced all his things.

Wordy, good ol' reliable Wordy, was the first to join. He reached into the bag as Jules did, hand brushing hers. She looked up sharply, thinking he intended to stop her. He had to understand – she… _they _couldn't let Sam go. He needed them. They needed him. Instead he nodded solemnly, carefully stacking Sam's belongings back in the locker. Spike jumped forward hastily to help, as did Leah. Ed nodded thoughtfully as he passed through the locker room as he headed towards the shower. The sounds of running water had stopped.

She could only think that he was going there to have a talk with Sam. A heart-to-heart. Or possibly to bash his brains in for even thinking of leaving. Either one would be equally effective, she thought as she slipped the last item in its position.

When he'd come back to that carefully restocked locker he'd stared a moment before slinging his jacket inside. And that was all that needed to be said. He wasn't leaving. At least not yet. But, still, she had seen that afternoon, how shaken he was. How confused and hurt and angry. And worse, he'd seemed blank and exhausted.

Jules glanced down at the clock in the car. The blinking green numbers sluggishly turned to 4:12PM. It was team one's day off and she'd tried to occupy herself today. She'd done her laundry, phoned her brothers, gone grocery shopping, touched up a spot of paint she'd missed on her deck and taken care of a dripping faucet. And every minute of it she'd been thinking of him. So she'd driven to his house to check on him. Because that's what concerned teammates did. She tried to convince herself her actions were more friendly and sisterly than loverly. But it was a truly half-hearted attempt.

But, blast him, he wasn't home. His bike, usually chained to the railing of the townhouse he rented in Riverdale. She glanced down at the ignition key. Maybe she should leave. He could be out on a ride or doing errands. Or maybe he was just sleeping. Or maybe he was out picking up a smoking hot red-head. She nervously tapped her hand against the hard wheel again. Maybe she should leave. What if he showed up, gorgeous, stacked babe in tow and she was sitting there in her Jeep, awkward and sheepish?

She hadn't counted on that possibility. She'd just wanted to check on him. He'd seemed so exhausted. Emotionally and physically. Sam was a readable guy, once you understood him. He wore his emotions openly. And last night as they'd left she could see he was just barely keeping it together. His unflappable control was fraying at the edges and pulling at the seams.

She wasn't used to seeing him like that. She couldn't stop thinking about it. That blank, weary look on his face. His usually fiery eyes gone dead with the weight of the day's events resting uneasily on him.

She snapped to attention when she noticed a large black truck pulling around the corner, veering slightly as it took the corner a little too tightly for comfort. The truck sped down the road, turning abruptly at Sam's driveway. Jules craned her neck to see out the window, nervously reaching towards the glove compartment box where she kept her off-duty weapon.

Four men spilled out of the truck, two supporting the heavy third, his head was bowed under a dark grey hoodie. Jules wondered what the hell was going on. But she didn't have time to wonder much further when two of the men started grappling. The grey hood fell back, revealing a head of bright blonde hair which shone like a beacon.

Jules leapt from her car, rushing across the road to the driveway just as the taller of the two other figures gripped Sam into a headlock. A think trickle of red blood had dribbled down his face, staining his white shirt, revealed by the open zipper of Sam's sweater.

"Stop freaking moving Braddock. You're such a pain in the ass." The shorter man growled, attempting to hook an arm around him.

Sam snarled something in response.

Jules ran closer, pushing herself between the men and Sam. "What are you doing to him?" She asked furiously. She'd clearly taken them by surprise as the redhead's eyebrows shot up under his Blue Jay's ball cap, disappearing into a bushy fringe of hair. "Leave him alone." She turned to Sam, quickly surveying him. His eyes were somewhat bleary and the blood on his nose and chin had already dried. The faintest of bruises touched his jaw.

"What did you do to yourself." She asked softly, gently rubbing a hand over his uninjured cheek.

Sam smiled, goofily leaning forward to place a smacking his on her lips. Jules nostrils were assaulted by the smell of cheap vodka and stale beer. He smelled, quite simply, like a bar room floor. After shocking her with his little display of affection he then promptly sat down on his ass in the middle of the driveway laughing like a loon. Jules scrunched her hands, firmly placing them on her hips.

"Braddock. You're drunk."

"Callaghan. You're _right."_ He parroted her tone, smiling charmingly up at her before leaning over to wretch on his neighbour's petunias.

Jules surveyed the other men slowly. The redhead leaned back against the hood of the truck head cocked as he examined her back. Jules' gaze slid across to the bespectacled blonde who rubbed the bridge of his nose nervously. The final man had slid out the passengers' side of the truck and sauntered around the front to join the group

"You must be Sam's teammate …" He started, his voice trailing off at the sharp glance that Bear shot him. Jules didn't see – her attention was focused on Sam. She absently patted his back as he continued to heave.

"Leah, right?" Bear asked.

"Hm?" Jules asked, turning her head towards Bear. "What?"

"Your name. It's Leah right. Sam's teammate?" Bear pushed. Specs looked confused but knew better than to open his mouth. They knew who she was. They knew EXACTLY who Jules was.

Jules frowned. He hadn't told them about her? At all? It grated at her pride. "No. Actually. I'm Julianna Callaghan – or Jules. But yes, I am his teammate." Her tone was a little sharper than she intended.

Zeb crossed his arms. "Jules, eh? Were you the one who busted the gang in the club district. The Viper was it?"

"Donna." Sam muttered under his breath. "Was Donna."

Jules frowned. "No." She responded before she could help herself. "I was the one who launched herself off a thirteen story building to catch a falling subject. Or, if you please, the one who got shot by the sniper."

Bear smiled broadly. "Now that you mention it Sammy may have said something about that."

Jules sighed. She crouched down in front of the thoroughly inebriated Sam. "Where are your keys Sam?" She asked.

He rolled his shoulders cheerfully. "Dunno."

Specs shook out Sam's discarded jacket, reaching into the pockets. They were empty but for a few coins and a handful of receipts. He shrugged.

Jules rolled her eyes. She strode over to the door, reaching up on her tip-toes to nab the spare off the top of the door frame.

"You know where the hide-a-key is for all your teammates or is Sammy here special?" Zeb asked, slinging an arm around Sam. Specs did the same and together they hauled the weaving and clumsy Sam to his feet.

Jules' mind went momentarily blank. _Shit. _She _wasn't _supposed to know that. She mirrored their body language, casually propping open the front door with her foot. "Well he didn't have a doormat to hide it under. And Sammy here's not the most creative with hiding places."

Zeb and Specs led Sam down the hallway to his bedroom. Jules heard some faint cursing before the whomp of a body landing heavily on a mattress. Specs emerged first.

"Gonna raid his cabinets for some advil, whiskey and tomato juice." He announced, clambering towards the kitchen.

"He's already drunk." Jules protested. "I sincerely doubt giving him more alcohol will be of any benefit."

"It's not for now. It's for when he wakes up with a champion of a headache." Bear explained, stretching out his tensed shoulders. "Get some water too, why don't you?" He called to Specs in the kitchen who grunted in response.

"I haven't seen anybody inhale so much alcohol since the night we finished basic." Zeb commented, casually sauntering out of the room where Sam lay, half asleep, across the bed.

Jules tried to think of something to say, but couldn't manage anything. Her through was too dry, clampy down on the words before they could bubble out.

"What happened yesterday?" Zeb asked. "He came to see me in the morning and then, this afternoon, I get a call from a bartender at The Spot telling me to pick him up from a bar at three o'freaking clock in the bloody afternoon or they're going to call the cops. I told him, asshole, he IS the cops and to cool his jets until we could get there. What the hell happened?"

"Can't discuss police business." Jules responded automatically. Why the hell hadn't he called _her._

"It was the shit at Godwin, wasn't it." Specs asked, hands full with supplies. He pushed back his glasses with the back of his hand.

Jules felt her lack of response was more than substantial enough. She stared down the hallway to the darkened bedroom.

"Did he shoot somebody? A kid?" Bear asked, touching Jules' arm and drawing her attention back to the three men standing before her.

"No." Jules responded. "No he didn't shoot anyone." She replied earnestly. "He just couldn't save him."

"I'm sure that's happened before." Bear stated, brows furrowed in confusion. "You can't always save everyone."

"This one just struck especially close for Sam." Jules answered wearily. She'd known he was upset. She hadn't expected him to drown his sorrows in a bottle of whiskey and a bar fight though. They both knew the dangers of that brief and temporary escape.

She reached over taking the tins of medicine and tomato juice from Specs. "I'll do it." She said.

She laid the bottles on the nightside table, moving into the bathroom to wet a cloth. She returned to his side, sitting on the bed beside his splayed form. She carefully wiped away the blood from his chin, the dirt from his cheek. He shied away at the feel of the ticklish fabric rubbing against his skin. His hand reached up to swat her hand away.

"You've done a number on yourself, Samtastic." She said, carefully transferring the cloth to the other hand and depositing it on the table.

"Couldn't stop thinking about him. That could have been me, Jules. Now he's dead. He's dead. Just like Matt. I can't stop killing people. I can't stop getting people killed. I just needed to stop thinking about it all." Sam said, lazily rolling to his back.

"Sam. Sam, promise me this is a one-time thing. Promise me." She demanded urgently.

"Promise." He responded sleepily, hand relaxing over hers. "I promise."

She heaved out the breath she hadn't known she was holding. And then another. And another. Until she was calm. She carefully laid out the advil and juice on the table, carefully filling up a glass with water. He was going to have a splitting headache when he awoke, that was for certain.

She carefully eased out of the room. The door clicking closed behind her seemed to boom in the near empty house. Two of the men, the glass-wearing blond and the brunette had disappeared. The ginger-haired man leaned casually against the wall surveying the hardwood floors, scuffing his feet along an uneven seem in the boards.

"You care about him, don't you." Bear asked, approvingly.

Jules fought the urge to deny it. "Yes. I do." She admitted earnestly.

"I'm glad. Sam's had a bit of a rough go. He deserves to have people in his life who love him."

Jules agreed, full-heartedly.

"I was prepared to dislike you. Because you and your team stole Sam away from us. We've been in the same unit for eight years. We could read each others' mind. He was my best man at my wedding. He's family. And we hated to lose him. But he needed to do what he had to do – he made his choice out of his own will. He wanted out – he wanted to start a whole new life. And I respect that. But I still wanted to hate you." Bear said.

"How enlightened of you." Jules remarked sarcastically, planting her hands firmly on her hips.

"Let me finish." Bear said mildly. "But when I came home after that first tour without him I could see that he was changing. He was happier. This is what he needed. Whether or not I want to admit it, the army wasn't the right fit for Sam. We love him. He was a good soldier. But he's a better cop."

"He's a hell of a cop." Jules responded. "The best."

"Why didn't he call one of your people today?" Bear asked.

"He feels like he let us down on the last call. He didn't. But he's determined to blame himself for it. The stubborn jackass." She added, her insult only half-hearted.

Bear nodded solemnly. "I'm going to leave him to you. I've got to get home to my wife. I promised I wouldn't be gone overly long. But it was nice meeting you Julianna Callaghan." He walked towards the door.

He turned at the last minute glancing over his shoulders to lock eyes with Jules. He added with a sly grin. "I also wanted to hate you for breaking Sam's heart. But I see you're every bit as much in love with him as he is with you. And it makes you miserable too, I think. So maybe I'll forgive you that one. But if you so much as dent his heart again we'll probably have to destroy you." Bear grinned broadly, kicking the front door shut after him leaving a stunned Jules in his wake.

...

_AN: I'm a little self-concious about this chapter - I'm a little nervous about you guys reading it. I hope you like it. Drop me a review - love or hate. I pretty much live for reader feedback. Critical or otherwise._

_Oh and thanks Canadian19 for your review. An update on Truth will be coming as soon(ish)._


	7. Number

Sam peddled through the open grove of trees, mind weighing heavily upon his heart. He usually loved the ride to work. It let him clear his mind, helped get him prepared for the day to come. And it reminded him of who he was protecting and why. He'd wind his way through the residential areas of Riverdale and Little Greece, heading north towards HQ. He particularly enjoyed it in the spring, when the city started to come to life after its winter hibernation, the layers of grey sleet dissolving into the softer greens and gentler rains of April. He'd pass shop keepers pulling up the iron grates on their stores and arranging their morning displays, he'd pass children trotting off to school, hands gripped firmly by older siblings or parents. The heavily wooded trails of Sunnybrook Park were a definite favourite – their trees providing a dappled shade for runners and cyclists. Its heavy earthy scent was homey to Sam.

He hadn't wanted to take this route to work today – he felt his bad mood might infect if, somehow, spilling out and staining the dark earth – but the park truly was the fastest way to HQ and he was running behind, thanks to his, er, _adventures _last night. Yesterday afternoon. Whatever. He wasn't eager to face the moshing, angry pit of drivers along the main roads, or the clogged bicycle lanes either.

He'd woken, very early this morning with a headache the likes of which he had not seen since highschool. He vaguely remembered a bar, a fight, Bear and, Jesus Christ he hoped he imagined this last part – Jules. Jules in his bedroom where they'd once … He sincerely hoped he'd dreamt that part up.

He pedaled faster. The wind brushing violently against his stubble-shorn face.

When he'd awoken at four-thirty AM he'd gratefully popped the advil that had been graciously set out on his bedside table, chasing them with the tomato juice and water. He'd contemplated the Whiskey – if only to take the edge off, but only momentarily. He wasn't sure his liver would approve of any more alcohol anytime soon. And besides. He was on shift in a matter of hours. So he'd lain in bed, not sleeping, and waited for the world to stop its sickening, disorienting spinning motion. After a shower and a meal of stale bagels and staler coffee he felt almost human. He'd given a thought to shaving, but considering the bruises forming along his jaw, he thought better of scraping a razer down his puffy face. No thanks. He'd rather NOT have to admit himself to the ER for shredding himself in the name of a shave. Besides – he rather hoped the stubble might cover some of the discoloration running up the left side of his face.

The depths of the park gave way to the chaos of the city once more. Sam excellerated into the final few kilometers, hoping the adrenalin and exercise would help clear any residual regrets. You couldn't afford to second guess on the job. He just wanted to go back to normal.

He pulled into the parking lot which was mercifully vacant of other people. Perfect. He'd have a couple extra minutes to figure out an excuse for his appearance. Right now he was favouring "fell onto a grizzly bear".

"Sam!" He heard a soft, female voice call. He cringed.

"Shelley." He plastered a smile on his face.

"Sammy!" Three little voices pipped up. Wordy's three eldest daughters raced towards him. Claire, the youngest, lagged somewhat, toddling furiously in an attempt to keep up with her two older sisters.

"Hey girls." He responded, crouching down slightly, receiving their hugs. He couldn't help the genuine grin that spread across his face. He didn't have a lot of experience with kids, but the Wordsworths were easy to love. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Layla, the oldest at nearly 7, leaned in close, examining his bruised jaw. "What happened to your face?" She asked innocently.

"I, uhm, I ran into something." He responded, looking down. Years of practice had him cull the urge to shuffle his feet.

"With your _face_?" Maddy, the second child, asked incredulously.

"Kiss it better?" Clair asked, puckering up and planting a sloppy kiss on his discoloured skin.

Sam looked to Shelley pleadingly. She sighed, jiggling the happily gargling baby Aly on her hip.

"Girls, I want you to get in the car and put your seat belts on. I don't want you to be late for school again." She said sternly, resting a hand on her two oldest children's shoulders. They slumped in responsed and gave the token whine, but recognized defeat quickly and retreated to the Wordsworth's van. Claire, always eager to follow their lead, scurried off, hot in pursuit.

There was a moment of silence before Shelley commented. "Ouch."

Sam laughed. "Looks worse than it is." He rubbed a hand over his face. It only burned a little.

"Looks pretty ugly to me." She noted casually. "Bruising would come down with an icepack. Rub some Vitamin E on it. It'll clear up pretty fast."

"I will." He nodded.

"I heard about the gunman in Godwin Arena. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I know this job is tough. But it's worth doing. You guys do an amazing job keeping our city safe. I know Wordy thinks highly of you. The team would hate to lose another person so soon after Lew." She said sorrowfully. "Team is family."

"Yeah. Yeah they are." He responded. And family stuck through thick and thin. He wouldn't walk again.

"Well it was good seeing you Sam." Shelley smiled, carefully patting his hand. As she walked away she turned and called. "And get a better excuse. That one wasn't even able to convince three children, let alone the Sarge."

Spike gave a low whistle when Sam slunk into the locker room.

"Geez, man. Jules told us it was bad, but that's pretty nasty." He proclaimed. "Girl must have a mean arm."

Sam tried not to let the confusion on his face show, burying it, instead, in the locker as he rummaged out a clean uniform.

"What did Jules tell you?" He asked casually.

"Just that she called you yesterday and you two went for a walk in the park. Softball comes flying out of nowhere and beans you in the face. Turns out it's a super hot chick. Samantha?" Spike mimed the action, staggering back under the blow of the invisible missile.

"Yeah something like that." Sam muttered, grateful for Jules' cover.

"So? You get her number?" Spike nudged him playfully.

Sam just grinned.

* * *

_AN: Just a quickie, really. I know it's not terribly profound in terms of plot. I've missed writing and needed something to get me back on the horse slash in the saddle. Whatever you want to say. Please review._


	8. A Windy Goodbye

Sam hunched his shoulders against the November breeze. It was bloody freezing – the wind was blowing in over the nearly-frozen canal, whipping through the sparse scattering of buildings with a furious roar.

When he'd first started the job at the SRU he'd hated most everything about – the endless mind games, the negotiating, the _closeness_. As a sniper he was accustomed to waiting in solitude for hours – waiting for that final, lethal command. You get the affirmative, you shoot. It was easier, somehow. It was black and white. No grey, no colour, no emotions. It was point, wait, shoot. It was done. And it was simpler. But he'd left that life, and for a good reason. The change hadn't been like a switch going off – more like the turning of the tides. Slow and gradual so you could barely detect the swelling and falling of water – and the job had become something he loved and lived for.

But there were still things and moments he hated about the job. One of them happened to be asking for time off. He'd been trained as a soldier first. Soldiers did what they were told, when they were told. End of story. You did not question orders and you didn't ask for leave. Particularly when you were a Braddock. It was one of those habits that was thoroughly ingrained, drummed in his brain from an early age. But _this_ was necessary. It was important. So after an uneventful day of drills he'd reluctantly approached Sarge in his office, requesting the day off.

Sarge had been surprised, for sure. Braddock had barely taken so much as a sick day since he'd joined Team One a year and a half ago. He logged his vacation days, sure, but rarely anything more. Few members of the SRU did, but Braddock was particularly vigilant in his attendance. So the request had struck him as out of the blue, but, as he could easily read the discomfort and unease on Sam's face and in his posture, he readily allowed him the day off.

So there he was, standing on the vast grey tarmac at CFB Trenton, watching two of his best friends say goodbye to their loved ones. It seemed to him that, in his time with the military and, subsequently JTF2, he'd seen more goodbyes than a human should possibly ever have to.

His first deployment his mother had come to wave him off. She'd wept the entire time – completely unbefitting of her status as a general's wife. Sam had no doubt her emotional outpouring would get back to his father and she'd be admonished. He still remembered the way she'd clung to him, tears streaking down her worn face, efore he'd slung his gear over his shoulder and strode off, into the loading plane.

For the next tour he'd gone it alone. He'd watch the worried wives fret over their husbands, children too young to understand what was happening would fidget and whine, older children sullenly pouting, hugging their parents tight. Middle aged parents huddled together, watching their fresh-faced children strut off towards the transports. The occasional husband dotted the group, pressing a kiss to his wife. Everyone knew this was quite possibly the last they'd ever see of their loved ones. Most would come home. But in war there were always casualties. And when you sent your husband or child away there was always the possibility they wouldn't come back to you.

Yeah - Sam had seen a lot of goodbyes. Today was the first day since he'd been a child, however, that he'd been on the other side, watching them leave. Just two years earlier he'd be striding off into the gaping mouth of the Globetrotter alongside Bear and Specs. Now he was the one saying goodbye. Hoping they came back. So many hadn't.

Specs' close-shorn head was bent close to his sunny-blond sisters, hands clasped in silent prayer. It was a little ritual they shared before each deployment. They'd lost their parents a few years before in a car accident. They only had each other. Which was still more than what Sam had, he thought with a small prick of envy and bitterness.

He sighed inwardly, watching the hugely pregnant Layla bravely say goodbye to Bear. The baby simply hadn't come yet. It would be months before Bear would get to see or hold his son or daughter. Layla ruthlessly tugged her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, away from the angry winds. She bit down on her lip, teeth making a white dent against her pink mouth. Her eyes were wet with tears unshed, hands resting over her bulging stomach.

Sam couldn't help but feel a little angry and sad for them both. Layla's brother was also being deployed and when she turned to say goodbye to him, Bear surveyed the crowd. Spotting Sam he rubbed an hand casually down Layla's arm, pecking a kiss on her wind-flushed cheek before striding through the bunches of people towards him.

"Thanks for coming Braddock." Bear said, turning to his friend, fighting to keep the grin on his face sincere. "It means a lot to us."

"Not a problem." He responded easily. He didn't smile back. He knew what it was like to be on the other side. The effort it took to maintain the brave face. To pretend like it was okay. You didn't have to pretend with other soldiers.

"Going to be strange, without you and Zeb and Jonesy and Matt and Dave. Seems like every year we dwindle a little." He shielded his eyes, turning to stare into the blazing sun.

"You'll be fine. Just have to break a few new rookies." Sam responded, patting his shoulder on the back.

"I suppose. Listen. I just … I want you to promise me that no matter what you'll take care of Layla." Bear spoke softly.

It burned in Sam's throat. He wanted to say nothing would happen to him. That the promise was useless. But it would be a lie. They all knew what could happen.

"I do. I promise." He responded, the words catching in his throat.

"And if … I want you to tell my kid about me when they grow up. Everything. Okay. Maybe not the night in Istanbul." Sam snorted at the memory. Now _that _was a memory he'd have liked to forget. "But I want them to know that I loved them. Even if I didn't get to know them. I want them to know that."

"They will." Sam assured him.

"You're a good man." Bear said. He clapped Sam in a gruff bear hug. Sam pounded a fist against his bulky shoulder. They broke apart, grinning wildly.

"Make sure you come home, soldier." Sam gave a lopsided smile as he said it. Bear gave a short nod before slipping back through the crowd to Layla. When he got to her he placed his hands over hers, resting them on the life they'd created together, and leaned in to kiss her.

"If I ever think of settling down, full permission to whip my ass." He heard Specs remark dryly from behind him. He turned to face his old friend.

"Sure thing, Specksy. One day you're going to fall for some girl – hard. And I will take great pleasure in taking you up on that and kicking your butt." Sam folded his arms across his chest.

"I gots me one love, Sam my man. And that happens to be Konrad Zuse." Specs drawled, scratching his head thoughtfully.

Sam figured it was some long dead guru of technology, but he'd play along. He elbowed Specs in the ribs. "Didn't know you swung that way, Specs. I mean. It's cool with me and all. But don't go getting any ideas. I'm solely into the ladies."

Specs scoffed, sending him a dirty look "He invented the computer. He's been dead for 10 years."

"I thought Zeb was coming." Sam said, scanning the crowds on the tarmac once again.

"He's got some troubles again." Specs said, running his tongue along the inside of his teeth.

"Yeah?" Sam asked, heart plunging inside his chest. He'd been so busy the past few weeks he hadn't given Zeb much time. The number of SRU calls last week had been absolutely staggering. And he was just too exhausted to do much but haul himself home and into bed after most shifts. A sticky layer of guilt washed over him.

"He got fired." Specs sighed, rolling a stiff shoulder. "That's the second this month. He just can't hold anything down. And Layla heard that Katie was getting papers drawn up. You know how military wives gossip." Specs wrinkled his nose in disgust, removing his standard-issue glasses and meticulously and carefully wiping the lenses clean.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed dryly. He knew exactly how they were.

"I don't think he could be here and watch us go. He'd want it too badly. Too many memories I guess. You chose the army because it was expected. I chose the army to escape Flin Flon. He chose it because he loved it. God knows why – but he did. I don't blame him for not being here. I wish he were. But I don't blame him." Specs said heavily.

Sam didn't respond. He wasn't quite sure how to.

"He told me the nightmares have started again. I hate to put more on your shoulders, Sam, but I'm worried about him." He spoke softly, so the others around couldn't hear.

"I'll do my best." Sam promised, vowing to himself to do better by his old teammate. "Just … take care of each other." He told him, engulfing Specs in a gruff hug, similar to the one he'd shared with Bear minutes ago

"Absolutely." Specs responded cheekily, swinging his pack over his shoulder and heading back towards his waiting sister for his final farewell.

Slowly men drifted back from their families to join the ever-growing lines of sandy-beige uniforms boarding the transport planes. Sam slid through the crowd to stand beside Layla. She waved, one hand pumping furiously through the air while her other cradled her pregnant stomach in a desperate attempt to comfort her baby and herself. Eventually the last person filtered through the gaping mouth of the plane. The enormous grey doors swung upwards, locking into place with a definite click.

Out of Bear's view now, Layla's small shoulders began to heave. Sam wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders. The plane rumbled down the runway, picking up speed until it slid upwards, into the air, slowly fading in a grey dot on the horizon. Families watched in silence as their loved ones' planes slipped from view, gradually fading into the clouded sky. He'd forgotten this part. The sadness, panic and fear, mixed with the feelings of hope and pride. He'd forgotten overwhelming sensation of loss. And the crushing, desperate weight of the long, empty time ahead, waiting for their men and women to come home.

"They're going to be okay." Her murmured to Layla.

She couldn't speak – she was afraid to open her mouth, knowing that the only sound she could give voice to would be sobs. She merely nodded, pressing her face into his chest, blinking rapidly to clear her teary eys.

After a time, the crowds began to disperse, trudging back to the stationwagons and vans, each one passenger short. "I just thought… that we'd get to be a family first." Her voice was miniscule. He barely heard it over the ripping wind.

Sam smiled down at her. "Family isn't about the where, Layla. You know that. It's about the who."

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Halle-freaking-llujah, I'm done moving and have internet again! Thanks for everyone's reviews on the last chapter. I hope you enjoyed this one as much.


	9. Somewhere in Between

Sam used the drive back to consider the turns his life had taken over the last two years. All starting with one little command. Fire. That's all it took for his life to change drastically. One small word. One simple, insignificant word and his world fell out from under him. He supposed that he was lucky that his father was a general. His discharge was slipped under the radar, strings were pulled and connections utilized to open up a spot at the SRU. If the general's son was leaving the army, after all, he'd better be headed off to something prestigious or worthwhile. The SRU was a tolerable alternative, to his father's mind, considering Sam's expertise ran towards sharpshooting, not terribly practical in most other professions.

At the time he'd been angry that Matt's death had been swept under the rug. They quietly informed his mother that her son had died. The funeral had been small, the same honours given to any fallen soldier. And then they wanted to just pretend like nothing had ever happened. He'd been furious at first. He wanted an explanation. He wanted to know why. Why Matt had been down there in the first place. Why he'd been in his line of fire. Why he'd be given the order when there were me in the field. He wanted to know.

But he was ashamed to say it became a relief. He wouldn't have been able to see his best friend laid to rest. How could he have looked Matt's mother in the face if she'd know he'd been the one to pull the trigger? He'd been glad to have that fresh start. He'd come to the SRU clean. Nobody had to know what he'd done – what he was responsible for. If it had been investigated he would have been the one to take the blame. He knew that – he accepted that. He'd been the one to pull the trigger after all. He'd have been crucified in the media. He could picture the headlines' now: General's son shoots comrade – only pieces left for grieving parents. It may have been selfish, but Sam was grateful, for once, for his father's interference.

He'd come to the SRU needing something more. He hadn't been sure what, at the time. Just that needed to do something different, to be someone new. He'd struggled – he'd floundered those first few weeks. He'd been trained to shoot. You dehumanize the enemy. You reduce them to a cause, you label them the bad guy. And you pull the trigger and end their life.

He'd been stunned and impressed, that first day in the hospital, when Parker talked down a father whose daughter had been denied a heart transplant. The whole team worked as a unit; they were a finely oiled machine, working towards one end: everyone walking away safely. They saw beneath that black and white and they understood them. In his years at special ops he'd never _understood _his targets. He didn't engage them. He just lined up the crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. But the SRU – well, the job was about saving people - not killing them. He'd decided, that day at that hospital, that it was the SRU he wanted. And he'd thrown himself into it. It had been hard – perhaps harder for him than most. But he loved the job.

Not everyone got that chance, though. He'd been one of a fortunate few, to be honest. He'd come back lost and angry and confused. He'd had that desperate achy need to _live_, truly live, again. But his stern and discipline upbringing kept him in check, and then his love for the SRU and the people in it.

Darren Kovacks hadn't been so lucky. He hadn't found that thing to live for, that will, that need, that desire, and now he was dead. And Zeb, so far, hadn't had much luck either. He'd turned to the bottle and brawling instead. He was headed down that slippery path too many took after they returned from deployment.

Sam sighed, drumming his hand against the wheel of the borrowed car as he hit the traffic of rush-hour Toronto and eased down to a crawl. He wasn't sure what he should do for Zeb but, by Christ, he wasn't done yet.

When Sam's phone buzzed he flipped it open and, without looking at it, he hit the speaker button. The last thing he wanted was a ticket for talking on his phone and driving, but he was still on-call and couldn't afford to miss a message from headquarters. Team One might need him.

"Sammy? Sam?" he heard a terrified whisper.

He looked down at the phone in abject horror. He flicked an unsteady hand over the caller ID to be certain.

"Mom? Mom what's wrong?" He frantically asked, gripping the phone in a white-knuckled fist

"Sammy. Please. He's got a gun. I don't' know what to do. He's got a gun. I think he's going to shoot. I .. Sammy. Oh god." He could barely hear her.

"Stay calm Mom. Stay calm." He was having a hard time doing that himself. He took a breath to steady himself. "Who's got a gun?"

"I … I don't know. I've never seen him before. I don't know. He's saying he'll shoot. Help me. Sammy. Oh god."

"Where are you?"

There was a silence.

"Mom?" He pressed the phone harder to his ear.

"I'm in Vaughan. I'm … I don't know. I don't know the address. Oh god. It's on America Ave. It's a brick house, two stories, white door. Two – oh – something. Two oh three? Four? I don't know. He broke in and I just saw a flash of the gun. I ran."

"That's good mom. That's good." He felt a wave of relief. He cranked his wheel to the right, shooting off one of the parkway exits. He completed a tight u-turn and floored the gas to shoot through a yellow light. He wished he had the SRU truck right now, with the lights and sirens. At least he had his badge if he got pulled over.

"I'm on my way. Can you get inside a room? An office or a bedroom? Use something to blockade the door."

"I don't know." Her voice cracked. "I don't … I'm in the kitchen. In the pantry. It doesn't have a lock. Of course there's no lock. Why the hell would anybody lock a pantry? From the inside no less. That's dumb. So dumb. Why'd I chose thepantry? Stupid." His mother hissed.

"Mom, hang on. Calm down and keep it together. I need to call headquarters. I need to phone it in."

"Sam – he's coming. I can hear the footsteps. Oh god. Sam I love you. You're a good son and I love you. You should've given me grandbabies. Why did you give me grandbabies? Oh god."

"Mom?" He was feeling a wave of desperation. It was strange. He dealt with these situations every day. But when somebody you love was inside, there was this new, uneasy sense of panic.

He heard a scream and accelerated the car further, urging her even faster. "MOM?" He yelled.

"Don't shoot. Please don't shoot. Don't shoot. Don't." He could hear his mother pleading. "Don't shoot. Please. Please. _Please._"

"Fuck." He could hear a male voice roar. "Shit. This is all fucking wrong. It's all wrong. What the fuck are you doing here? Why are you here?" The man's voice rang, eerily familiar in his head.

The need to profile kicked in. Subject was clearly panicked and in a high state of agitation. His mother wasn't the primary target and that was good news. Alternatively, he also, whatever he was doing was clearly premeditated. He had a plan and a goal. Voice was young, in addition to male.

"I don't know." He heard his mother whimper.

"Is that a phone? Is that a fucking cellphone?" He heard the man scream.

"Yes. Yes. Take it. Take anything. Take it. I don't … Just let me go. I'll give you anything you want." He heard his mother promise.

"It's on. Fuck. Fucking A." He heard the man curse. "You call the cops? You call the fucking cops?" The voice grew louder. "Who is this?" The man demanded, shouting into the phone.

The familiarity of the voice nagged at him. "My name is Samuel Braddock. The woman you're holding is my mother. Please. Let her go." He was almost there. He swung the car swung through the intersection, across the heavy flow of traffic, onto America Ave. He punched the gas, shooting along the street, eyes raking the driveways and parking stalls for his mother's black sedan.

This set the man into another stream of furious curses. He could hear his mother sob in the background. That voice …

"This wasn't supposed to happen like this." The man protested.

The gears in Sam's head came to a grinding halt.

"Zeb?"


	10. Hot Call

Sam spotted his father's car parked outside the tall brick townhouses along the shaded drive, whipping into a u-turn to park illegally behind it. He dashed across the lawn. He hadn't taken more than three strides before he could see that the door, carefully positioned back in place, had been wrenched from its hinges. Heaving it aside he stumbled inside.

"Zeb?" He called, carefully, as he slid through the front doorway. He didn't want to startle him. He was holding his mother hostage, for Christ's sake.

His mind mentally catalogued the house's layout as he swept through it. He wished he'd taken his gun with him today. Weapons weren't typically allowed on the base so he'd left it at home. He didn't imagine he'd have great need for it seeing his friends deploy. How was he to know that his former team-mate would lose it and take his mother flipping hostage?

"Zeb? It's me. It's Sam." He called, trying to keep his voice calm as he eased his way across the plush carpeting of the living room. He slid around the corner to the kitchen and stopped cold.

_Boom_

**... ... ... ...  
**

"Hot call, Team One." Winnie announced over the intercom.

Jules frowned, jogging towards the garage to load up the truck. It felt strange to go on call without Sam. It felt wrong, somehow. Her heart leapt up, throbbing and beating in her throat. She tried to swallow but found she couldn't. Something felt really,terribly wrong.

Stowing the rifle kit, she jogged to the passenger seat beside Ed. Grinning, he slipped on a pair of reflective aviators and rocketed the car into drive.

"Let's Roll team." Sarge's voice echoed in her earpiece. "Address is 203 America Avenue, Vaughan."

_AN: Just a quicke. Uhm - ps - why does this website hate me so much? Did they get rid of paragraph breaks for everyone or is that restricted to me? Sucky deal. Anyway, thanks for the awesome reviews on the last chapter. More soon-ish. Hopefully.  
_


	11. Mr Pumpkin

AN: Hey guys - just a quick note and something to keep in mind as you're reading - the last three scenes are taking place at the same time - it's just different people's perspective on what's going down. Just to make things clear. Okay. Thanks and enjoy!

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"So what do we know?" Sarge asked.

Winnie relayed them the call information. "Neighbours called in shots fired 1:12PM in the residence, currently owned by one Amber Longfield, aged 23. She's currently a grad student at York university – English with a concentration on Romantic Literature."

Jules frowned, turning in her seat to face Sarge. "That's Columbus Trails area. Ritzy neighbourhood for a student. Houses must go for a half-mil each."

"Yeah. Winnie, can you get us financials on Ms. Longfield?" Sarge asked.

"Absolutely, Sarge." She responded.

"Good news is that the contractors used a standard layout for the houses inside the development. So we know the floorplan down the inch." Spike relayed. "I'm uploading them now."

"Good work. Wordy and Ed – you're Alpha. Leah and Jules Bravo. Spike, prepare for possible explosive entry. Otherwise you'll in the truck with me on tactical." Sarge ordered. He flipped off the sirens as they drove though the low ornamental gates of the neighbourhood.

The streets were orderly – gardens tamed, hedges trimmed neatly, lawns kept bristly short and vibrantly green. The bricks were perfectly space and the accent colours tastefully muted. Jules hated it immediately.

The house in question was a two-story townhouse set a respectable distance away from the road. Its manicured lawns were accented by beds of flowers that, come spring, would likely bloom with colour. A stone pathway wound around the house leading to a cozy front porch. The heavy wooden door sat ajar on its hinges.

"Looks like we won't need the ram. Subject's already done the work for us. Okay. Wordy – get eyes inside. We need to figure out where the subject is, if there are any hostages, what kind of weapon they're carrying. We've got at least three vehicles parked in the near vicinity. Spike, I want you to run license plates. Leah, Jules – see what you can get out of the neighbours."

"On it boss." They responded prompty. Behind him Greg could hear Spike relaying the information into the auto-recorder.

"I'm going to try and call the home phone – see if we can establish contact."

"Okay. Patching you through." Spike responded promptly, hurriedly tapping away at his keyboard, monitor's flashing with various flickering screens of information.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Again. A fifth. Another. It beeped, indicating it would soon diver to voice-mail. Sarge sighed, pushing back from the row of machines and monitors in the truck. A subject's reluctance to make contact was rarely a good sign.

"_Hello?"_

_Good boy, Greg thought. Very good._ "Hello? This is Sargaent Gregory Park with the Strategic Response Unit. We have reports of shots being fired in the area and we're just concerned for the safety of the people inside your residence. Who am I speaking with?" He asked, keeping his voice low and calm.

He was met with a string of vicious swear words so volatile that Spike paused at his typing to whistle under his breath.

"Keep it calm, son." Greg urged him. "Come on now. Talk to me. What's going on."

"Nothing. Nothing. Just leave us alone. I don't want to kill anyone else."

"Anyone else?" Parker's heart lurched. Christ. He hoped they weren't too late. "Is somebody in there injured."

"No. Everyone's fine." The voice snapped. "Just leave us alone. Leave us the hell alone. Go away. If you don't go away I'll shoot her. I will." Greg's protests, bubbling in his throat, were cut off by the dial tone.

"Subject terminated initial contact. No demands yet." He spoke into the recorder and then, to his team: "Voice is male, young – probably mid to late twenties. He sounds more than upset, people. Could be substance issues or mental problems. We've got to lock this down quickly – he sounds like he's escalating."

Wordy surveyed the house, treading carefully and soundlessly as he rounded the corner. He could see the silhouette of a man through the thin, kitchen blinds, but nothing more.

_Perfect. Ground floor access, multiple entrance-ways, good visibility from a variety of angles and, more importantly, windows to spy through. _Wordy loved these kinds of situation.

The glass was, mercifully, shattered, shards strewed across the glass, glimmering in the glaring sunlight. It would make getting eyes in easier. No intrusive, loud drills. He'd just pop the snake-cam up under the window.

He swung off the backpack, pulling the metal tab of the zipper down. The rasp was almost deafening inside his head as the zipper gave way. He wiggled a hand in, fishing out the long metal cords of the camera. He carefully attached the cushy suction pads and pressed it against the side of the building, angling the lens inwards.

His monitor showed nothing but fuzz. Frowning he wriggled the stem of the camera. The screen gave a bright flash of static then faded into perfectly clear resolution.

_Fuck_.

"Sarge. We've got a problem."

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Spike's monitor surged with numbers and information. Time was of the essence. He had to pick out what was important. He tapped through the license registry database. Two of the cars belonged to residents of the neighbourhood, another to a landscaper employed in the development and three more were currently running the system."

"Sarge we've got a possible match to the subject. Silver sedan parked across the street is registered to a Corporal Anthony Smithson, 26."

"Okay. That's good work but keep running plates. We don't know for sure if that's him." Sarge responded.

Sarge was trying to juggle calls from Bravo team and Wordy, who was hooking up the video camera. He was rapidly firing commands into his ear piece. Spike wasn't sure how he did it – it was like he had three brains up there. Spike turned back to his monitor. Another set of plates buzzed through – the blue Toyota parked in front was registered to Anita Lang, a 58 year old widow living in Riverdale.

Long way from home, Spike thought. _Riverdale._ Sam's neighbourhood.

"Sarge? I was thinking. If there's a chance this is military-related maybe we should call Sam in on this one. He's still on-call – he could be here in ten, easily. He's still got the JTF2 connections . Bases are tight-knit – hard to get information if they think we'll use it against him. They'd be more accessible to somebody like him. Easier to grind the wheels, get medical and personal information."

Sarge nodded. "Yeah. He'd be helpful. Call him in."

Spike spun back to the computer, began typing in the digits for Sam's cell when the final license plate's information popped. The stylish black Lincoln towncar parked out in front of the house.

He jerked back from the screen. Then leaned in close, double checking the plates. Registered to General Henry James Peter Braddock.

_Fuck._

Wordy's voice, eerily distant in Spike's ear, echoed his sentiments. _Sarge. We've got a problem_.

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Leah wouldn't say she hated small dogs. But she certainly didn't have any great affection for them. She just didn't see the point, really. If you were going to get a dog, get a _dog_. Get a lab, get a bulldog, get a collie. Get a husky or a Newfoundland dog. Get a great, messy, sloppy mutt. Don't get a fluffball Pommeranian. It was basically a yappy guinea-pig.

Mrs. Collins' ankle-biter hovered, barking behind his fashionable owner. She ineffectively tried to hush him cooing something that soundly oddly like "Mr. Pumpkin Whumpkin". Leah was torn between disgust and amusement.

Jules sent her a look that plainly begged the question: _Why? Why do we always get the dog owners?_ Leah shrugged in response. Truth be told, she preferred the overprotective great-Danes to the uppity fuzzballs.

"Can you tell us exactly what you saw? It's important that you be as specific as possible." Jules encouraged the woman.

The woman rubbed her hands against her white slacks and straightened her blouse before answering. "Well. I saw the first the black car pulled in. I think it's a Lincoln. My first husband liked cars. Actually I'm not sure." She trailed off pensively.

"Not sure the Lincoln got to the house first?" Jules asked, eager to get the interview over with.

"No, if it was my first husband. Might have my third. Well. One of them liked cars." The woman reached up to fluff her mane of shiny bronze hair. Leah could hear Jules' teeth grinding.

She jumped in: "Ma'am. Did you see who was driving the car? Have you seen it here before?"

"Oh sure. The black car's here at least twice a week. Usually Mondays and Thursdays. Around noon. I think it's a man. I've only seen him once. Big guy. Maybe 55ish? Quite handsome, actually. He's got this blonde swarthy thing going on." She waved a hand casually.

Jules bitterly wondered if Mrs. Collins hoped to make him lucky husband number four.

"He's got really short hair – almost a buzz. He's got fantastic posture. I think he and Amber have an _arrangement_, if you catch my drift." She dropped her voice conspiratorily. "Disgusting really. He's old enough to be her _father_."

"Did you see him enter the house today?" Leah asked. The dog burst into another fit of convulsive yipping. She enjoyed a brief vision of punting the beast across the yard like a football. And was immediately hit with a wave of guilt.

"No. I was with Mr. Pumpkin in the backyard. Training for our upcoming show weren't we, Mister Wister. Weren't we?" She asked her dog. Leah no longer wanted to kick the dog – the owner would do just as well.

"Okay – then what happened." Jules struggled not to roll her eyes.

"It happened really fast. I came back into the house to get Mr. Pumpkin's treats and I saw the grey sedan pull him. He was driving really quickly. A really young man. He stormed over to the house. I just figured he was one of Amber's _men._ Lover's quarrel. I figured there would be trouble – what with having two lovers there at once. But really, our training is on such a tight schedule. And as if I really care anyway." She sniffed indignantly, leaning down to pick up her beloved pooch. He let loose a diminutive and pathetic growl.

_Yeah right._ Leah thought. She'd bet dollars to pounds to Mrs. Collins had pressed her smug little nose up against the glass, listening and watching.

She stroked her dog's fur, rings glittering on each finger as they caressed the dog's head. "Not long after a third car pulled up. The blue thing. Young man got out. Busy girl, our Amber."

_That was rich, coming from a woman with three husbands_. Leah thought.

"What did he look like? Can you describe him for us?" Jules asked. Leah mentally applauded her restraint.

"I don't know. I've never seen him before. He was, I don't know, 6 foot maybe. Blonde. Hair was longer than the first guy's. Good build on him too, actually. He sprinted across the street – in a big hurry. Guess he was worried they'd start without him maybe." The woman remarked.

"Then what?" Jules asked – she glanced back at the truck then down at her watch. She hoped the woman got the message, but consider how self-asborbed she was Jules rather doubted it.

"There was this terrible sound – a horrible, loud noise. Scared my little Mr. Pumpkin, didn't it." She cooed to her dog again, pressing kisses around his grim little face.

"The gunshot?" Leah asked.

"Probably." The woman shrugged.

"This is important ma'am. Did you see anyone leave the house after the gunshot."

"No. Nobody came of left after that." The woman responded, absently stroking her dog's golden fur. He smirked contentedly from the crook of her arm.

"Okay. Well, thank you for your assistance. If you could just give your statement to the officer." Jules motioned forward a police official. He looked as skeptical of Mrs. Collins and her dog as she felt.

As they strode down the steps, heading back to the truck headquarters, Jules relayed their information into her headset. "Sarge? Witnesses say there are likely three males inside. She didn't see the first enter the residence but apparently he's a frequent visitor. The second and third males were unknown to her, however she did see them enter the building and did not see either of them leave since."

"Okay. So. We have at least two individuals inside the house, possibly a third. We're still trying to get a line on Amber – we haven't been able to reach her."

"We got eyes inside yet?" Leah asked.

"Wordy's on it. Should be any minute now." Sarge responded.

"Sarge, we could check the two cars over – see if we can get any personal information off of them. Might help the profile." Jules suggested as they jogged across the street..

"Good idea. Do it. Don't go inside – we don't have a warrant. But see what you can through the windows." Sarge warned them.

The Toyota was closer. Jules cocked her head. Something familiar about it. She couldn't shake the feeling she'd seen the car before. "We got license plate registrations?"

"Spike's on it." Greg responded.

"Inside is tidy – nearly spotless." Leah peered through the windows. "Half empty bottle of blue Gatorade."

_Sam's favourite flavor_. Jules though absently circling around to the driver's side.

"Doors unlocked. Keys are still in the ignition boss. Could be they expected to be in and out." She spoke quietly as she assessed the interior.

"Noted." Parker replied curtly.

"What else have we got here?" She asked herself. "A pair of sunglasses on the dash. Looks like a parking pass on the dash." She squinted against the harsh glare of the sun, trying to make out the letters.

Her heart gave a lurch, plummeting down into the pit of her stomach. She stumbled back a foot. Yes. That was why the car looked so familiar. She'd seen it. A hundred times before.

She yanked the driver door open, yanking the slip of yellow paper off the dash.

"What are you doing?" Leah hissed. "We don't have a warrant. We're not allowed in."

"Doesn't matter." Jules said, her mouth dry. She wiped an unsteady hand across her mouth. Leah leaned over her shoulder, glancing down at the paper.

"It's a base pass. CFB Trenton." She skimmed the paper. "CFB Trenton. Isn't that where Sam was …" He voice trailed off as it hit her in the wordlessly jabbed the paper and Leah's eyes dropped to the bottom of the pager.

_Issued to civilian Samuel A. W. Braddock._

Thoughts whirled through her head as she spun back to the house. He was _inside_. There had been gunshots. And he was _inside_.


	12. Coward

The only word that Greg could use that would adequately describe the situation in the truck was pure and unadulterated chaos. Ed was barking orders and demands into his headphone, scrambling to find a location for the sierra shot; meawhile, monitors were frantically blinking as Spike scurried between screens, pulling up freeze frame images of the subject. Wordy, the calmest of the lot, was recording the latest information into the auto-recorded. But his tone, bitter and icy-cold, relayed his anger and frustration. Leah burst through the side door, striding over to the closest monitor to verify what they already knew.

Greg glanced over to Jules, frozen in the doorway, eyes glued to the video screen. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that she and Sam had been, well, involved. He could see the shock still resonating on her face. He took a moment to rub a hand over his face, pressing his fingers against his eyes. He was trying to stay calm – stay collected. The team needed, now more than ever, to run like the well-oiled machine they were trained to be. They needed him to pull it together. One of their own was in danger.

"Jules." He spoke quietly, under the thrum of voices as the team frantically debated their options and plans. "Jules are you going to be okay?" He asked. Her eyes snapped from the computer screen to his, locking on with laser precision. She gave a deliberate shrug of her shoulders, her lax grip on her gun tightening. It was an amazing thing to watch, Sarge thought as she pulled herself together before his eyes.

"Fine, Sir." Came her low reply. _Focus, Jules. You've got a job to do._

"Good." Sarge responded. "Okay team. Team!" He had to shout over the rising volumes inside the truck. "I know this is hard, but we need to treat this like any other case."

"Sarge." Wordy protested. "This isn't any other case. This is Sam." He gestured towards the monitor.

"I know. And I want him to come out safely as much as each of you. But we're not doing Sam any favours by making rash decisions out of panic or fear or anger." Sarge replied. "We need to get all the information before we bust in any doors. Because we all want Sam to walk out of that house."

Silence hung heavy in the truck as the team grappled to contain their emotions and stifle their need for quick and lethal action.

"Wordy. Tell us what we have so far." Sarge commanded.

"We have one gunman – believed to be Anthony Smithson, owner of the grey sedan parked across the street. There are two hostages, one SRU officer Samuel Braddock and one civilian female, approximated age mid-fifties, roughly identified as Barbara Braddock. The vehicle registered to her husband, Henry Braddock, is also on scene. Subject is holding the two hostages at gunpoint in the kitchen. Subject is highly agitated, likely in a state of mental distress."

"What do we know about this Anthony Smithson?" Sarge asked.

"He's former military – very recently former military. His unit was recalled from Afghanistan three months ago following a serious road-side explosion which severely injured two and killed three. He was discharged last month. Appears to have recently separated from his wife – a Katherine Smithson. Works at Branson Publisher Ltd's downtown headquarters. We sent a squad car to pick her up – she may be able to provide inside intel into his state of mind."

Spike scrolled through a screen of data. "Sarge – he appears to Special Ops as well. I'm wondering if this might be personal."

"Why would he go after Sam? Sam's been out for over two years now." Leah asked.

"Spike can you zoom in on the face?" Jules asked, leaning closer to the screen. Something seemed vaguely familiar about the couldn't say where but she could swear she'd seen him before.

Spike nodded, bending over the keyboard. The image magnified.

"Sarge. That's one of his former teammates." Jules tapped the screen angrily. She'd seen him the day she'd gone to Sam's house to check on him – he was one of the men who'd helped haul him inside. One of his army friends.

"How do you know?" Leah asked.

_Because Sam told me. Because I saw him. _"I recognize him from the team-picture Sam carries around." She responded vague. "Can you patch in Audio?"

Spike nodded, keying in a command that brought the monitor's speakers crackling to life. Sam's voice, low and calm, was a comforting sound to his concerned teammates.

"_I just want my fucking life back Sam. It's all fucked up."__  
_

"_I know, Zeb. I know. This isn't the way you wanted things to go."_

"_I just … I can't do this anymore. I can't." _

"_Just talk to me buddy. Tell me what's going on. Zeb. I'm your friend. I'm here to help." _

"_I can't."_

"_Yes you can. Just put down the gun, Zeb. We can do this together. Just put it down."_

"_I can't."_

Sarge pushed back the bill of his cap to scratch his head._ "_Yeah – he definitely knows him. All right. I'm going to try to re-establish communications and get him talking. I need to know what he wants. Jules - I need you to gather intel. I'm sending you out to the base."

He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. "Jules, I need to know where this guy is coming from and you're our best profiler. I need you there. It's only ten minutes away. See if you can pull any contacts at the base – doctors, neighbours, his superiors, whatever you can."

"Sarge, they're not going to tell us anything. JTF2 is top secret. They're going to run hoops around us for hours – days. It's useless. We need to act now."

"Jules, I trust in your abilities to play dirty and kick where it hurts. If this goes poorly, something like this, it could end badly for the forces in the press. Especially so soon after Goodwin Arena. The General has a lot to lose here. Wife and Son being held in what may be his mistress's house? Things could get ugly."

"Leah – cover the wife when she gets here. Wordy, I need you to stand by, prepared for explosive entry. Leah – with Wordy. Spike – see if you can track down General Braddock of Amber Longfield. I want to know about their relationship to each other, the gunman. I want to know who their freaking mail man is. Get me all the information you can."

"Ed do you have the solution?"

"Negative. Get Wordy to bring the heat sensor – we can use it to match up where they are with the video angles."

"Okay. Okay. Just keep in position and we'll see what we can do. Okay, Team One. Lets kick some ass."

**... ... ... **

It may have been a ten minute ride but Jules made it in five, keeping the Suburban's gas pedal ground to the floor. Sirens sounding, blue and red lights flashing she blasted past civilian traffic, heading north to the base. The base where the Special ops teams were stationed when they weren't on active duty – the base of operational headquarters. And also the base where General Henry Braddock reigned supreme.

"Guys." Spike's voice reverberated in her earpiece. "Cell phone records show that Mrs. Braddock called Sam at 12:58pm. We had to bend a few arms but we've got the audio from the call."

"Patch it in." Jules demanded.

"Jules." Sarge responded, his voice carrying a tone of warning.

"Patch it through. It may be important for me to know. If I'm going up against a General and the Canadian Forces I'd like some leverage." Jules insisted. She wanted – no – _needed _to hear it.

She pulled her mini-recorder from the glove-compartment, switching it into the on position. She listened stonily – heard the panic and fear. And the love that had clearly driven Sam to run, stupidly, into a hostage situation. He _knew _better. They all did. But when it was somebody you love sometimes you got blindsided.

Winnie must have phoned ahead because gate security was expecting her. She pulled through the gates and headed for the tall steely-glass headquarters building. She parked amid the line of military jeeps and civilian cars. She jammed the gear into park, yanking out the key as she jumped out of the Suburban.

Apparently the army felt the same because no sooner had she stepped from the SUV than two men emerged from the glossy doors. They were dress in their full service uniforms, the forest green suits' crisp lines articulated by their rigid posture.

"Ma'am." The shorter of the two men addressed her. "The General requests a word with you."

Jules didn't really see a choice. She gave a brief nod and, when they turned briskly, she followed them through the glass doors and into the cavernous maze of army headquarters. She was lead through the concrete twists and turns, up stairways and down long hallways. They came to an abrupt stop in front of an unimposing office door; it looked like all the others on the floor – brown, wooden, non-descript. None of the doors had name-plates – likely a safety precaution. Everyone would know where the General's office was anyway – why bother advertising it any more than necessary?

"The General, ma'am." The man gave a quick rap on the door and, hearing the assent from within, pushed it open.

General Braddock sat behind an immense and immaculately organized desk. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling window allowed him a view of the base. Jules scanned the room quickly, noting the rows of bookselves were loaded with both military tomes of techniques, histories and political theorists, arranged alphabetically by author and subject.

The man was, undoubtedly, Sam's father. It was strange to see his features on another person. His eyes – his hands. The furrow in the brow. It was all the same – except colder. Sterner. She'd asked Sam once, when they were together, what his father was like. He'd shrugged and had merely said '_he's a general_'. Now that she was face to face with him she understood, perfectly.

"Constable Callaghan." He rose, stone-faced. "I understand that we have a security situation involving a former member of our special ops unit, former Corporal Anthony Smithson."

"Yes sir." Jules responded.

"I sent for his commanding officer. I trust that I do not have to stress the importance of discretion in this matter. The identities of our Joint Task Force operators are highly secret - a matter of national security. When this goes to the press we expect that his connections to the special ops will not be disclosed. We cannot afford to have the identities of Smithson and his teammates compromised. If this matter had not been reported to the Toronto Police first, we would have dealt with it internally."

"I understand." Jules gritted her teeth.

"We cannot afford this to go to the press and have them portraying our men as crazed killers or dangerous to the public." The General cocked an eyebrow at her – his gaze, the same blue-green as Sam's, unwaveringly boring into her.

Jules nodded. Indeed – the press was an important piece of artillery. She'd use it if necessary.

Another man emerged at the door. He was a rotund man, short in stature, but with small beady eyes hooded by a prominent brow. He was dressed in jeans with dark stains on the knees and a faded Jays' jersey. Jules surmised that he'd been called in from off-duty. His grey hair was cropped short beneath his cap. He looked absolutely harmless which, Jules supposed, was what made him dangerous in all likelihood. A JTF2 Commander would be anything but harmless.

"Come in Colonel Laroque."

"General Braddock. Ma'am." He addressed them curtly. Even in civilian clothes he was entirely military.

"Brief us, Constable Callaghan." General Braddock ordered.

"At approximately 2:20 this afternoon one of your former operators, Anthony Smithson, armed with a .3 pistol entered a residence in Vaughan in took two hostages. Our intel indicates that he was recently discharged from the military. We would like to know the circumstances of his discharge. They may prove vital to our negotiations."

"With all regrets, ma'am, that isn't possible. JTF2 operations are strictly confidential. Protectnig the integrity of that information is tantamount to national security." Laroque responded cooly.

"I understand, however, it's clearly a factor in his mind-set. Unless we're able to connect with Anthony and are able to understand what's motivating him we're not going to be able to de-escallate him."

"We regret that we are not able to be of more assistance." Laroque's eyes narrowed.

"Our team has a man inside, being held at gunpoint by one of your officers. Any information you have on his mental state is absolutely essential."

"I'm sorry, Constable, but we aren't able to do anything." General Braddock responded.

"This is your _son._" Jules hissed. "This is your _wife._"

General Braddock frowned.

"Excuse me?"

Jules mind went blank. _Shit. _She had to backpedal. _New plan._

"Please clarify." General Braddock demanded, leaning forward across his desk. His nostrils flared with anger.

"I was told by our liason that you were informed of the situation." Jules stated carefully.

"Yes. I was informed there was a hostage situation involving a former special ops agent."

"Smithson followed your wife to 203 America Ave today. Is that address familiar? It should be. Financials show that you wired the house's owner, Amber Longfield, ten thousand dollars last month. And five thousand the month before. Isn't that _intresting_." She leaned in until they were nose to nose.

"Smithson followed her there. He broke in. She called Sam. Listen." She set the recorder on the desk with a thump, jabbing the play button.

_"Mom? Mom what's wrong?"_

_"Sammy. Please. He's got a gun. I don't' know what to do. He's got a gun. I think he's going to shoot. I .. Sammy. Oh god." _

"He wasn't armed. He was going to CFB Trenton to say goodbye to his old teammates – so he didn't bother bringing his gun. So when he ran into that house today – to save his mother, your wife – he was running in blind and unarmed. He knew that the man inside had a gun. He knew that it was dangerous. And he did it anyway. Because he is a brave man – somebody who cares more about other people than himself. He must have gotten that from his mother, because the man I see before me today is a coward." She hissed.

"And if you can't find it in yourself to help your _son_ and his mother than you can go screw yourself. I'll find somebody who will. I'm going to walk out that door and you better pray that nothing happens to them. Because if something does, well, I think you'll find that information about both your financial interactions with Ms. Longfield and this _little incident_ will find its way onto the front pages of every single major newspaper across the country." Jules waited a beat before turning on her heel to brush past Laroque, out the office door.

"Stop." Jules bit back on her grim smirk of satisfaction. She glanced over her shoulder, hand braced on the doorknob.

"Yes General Braddock?" She asked, lifting an eyebrow.

He looked at Laroque, who opened his mouth, protest forming on his tongue. The General's stern expression had the man choking back his excuses. "Sit down, Constable Callaghan. We'll tell you what you need to know."

**... ... ...**

AN: Hey guys - First off - I had to do some geographical bending in this chapter. Bordon isn't really that close to Vaughan. But, really, it's fanfiction, right? How geographically correct do I really have to be right?

I know some of you are looking forward to the Sam/Zeb stuff - so head's up. That's going to be coming up in the next chapter. I think. Maybe. Hopefully it'll live up to your guys' expectations. Anyway - I really hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Drop me a line and let me know.


	13. Two Inches

AN: I can't believe how many reviews this story has - 65 seems like an absolutely insane number to me. I just wanted to thank everyone who's been reading the story and, in particular, the people who have left me such wonderful, helpful reviews. It was great to hear so much feedback on the last chapter. I appreciate each and every response to my writing. You guys are utterly fantastic.

**... ... ... **

Two inches. Two inches to the right and Sam would have been dead. Really dead. Extremely dead. But, as it were, luck was on his side today. He'd ducked left instead of dodging right and was alive because of it. The cheery pastel-yellow wall where his head had been a splitsecond earlier had been punctured by a bullet, sending puffs of drywall dust into the air. The particles flickered through the air, appearing to dance in the beams of light from the slats in the blinds, catching the sun as they rose and fell eerily slowly.

"I didn't mean to shoot at you Sam. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. You know it was an accident right?" Zeb asked frantically, crouching down in front of Sam. "You know I'd never hurt you on purpose? We protect each others. Brothers in arms."

His mother's terrified gaze met his over Zeb's hunched shoulders. Her cheeks had gone papery white and she shook with violent tremors. Her eyes had gone glassy – one of the first signs of shock.

"It's okay, Zeb. It's fine. No harm. You didn't hit me." Sam told him. "I've been shot at before, right?"

"Right. Sure. We've had worse." Zeb said, jolting to his feet to pace. The motion had Sam's mother skittering closer. She curled into the wall as if she could disappear into it.

"Did you really call the cops?" Zeb demanded, tapping a fist anxiously against the side of his head.

"No." Sam responded calmly. His heart was racing a million unsteady beats a minute. He could feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine. "I didn't call anyone. I came straight here. Somebody must have heard the gunshots and called it in."

"Your fucking SRU are out there." Zeb jerked a thumb towards the window. Sam's eyes quickly scanned the ledge, noting but not acknowledging the snake cam propped up in the bottom corner, mostly concealed by horizontal slats of the blinds. Sam swore under his breath. He'd hoped maybe, possibly, he could talk Zeb down and they could have all walked away safely without the cops and it wouldn't go on his criminal record. He wouldn't be charged or have to spend time in jail. That wasn't what Zeb needed. He thought he'd just needed time to readjust. But Zeb needed a lot more than that. He needed help.

His mind took a quick turn as he realized that Team One was on call today. On one hand they were the best – if anyone could talk down Zeb and get his mother out safely, it was his team – his SRU family. But on the other he didn't want them to have to go through the turmoil, the trauma, the stress. Having to sit by as your teammate and friend is sitting facing the wrong end of a loaded gun was the worst feeling on the planet. The sitting – the waiting; they were both painful and seemingly endless.

"We're the go to people for gun and hostage situations, Zeb. SRU always takes these cases." Sam explained calmly.

Zeb, back pressed against the cupboards, slunk closer to the window.

"Listen to me Zeb." He held out his hands, palms forward. "Listen. They're not going to hurt you. Just put the gun down and we can all walk out of here safely."

Zeb ignored him, gently prying open the vertical slats of the blinds so he could peer outside. "Whose car did you borrow?"

"My neighbour's. I mow her lawn and shovel her driveway, she lets me borrow her car when necessary. I needed it to get out to the base today."

"Bear and Specs left." Zeb crouched down, below the counter-level. Possible sniper posts on the house beside and across the street. Keeping low minimized the chance of being struck. He reached over flicking the oven on with one hand and wrenching open the door with the other. Shit would fuck with the heat-sensing radar he was sure the cops would try to use.

Sam cursed himself, mentally. Zeb wasn't your average subject. He had extensive survival training and combat knowledge. Armed confrontation between Zeb and armed SRU agents wouldn't end well for either side.

He'd have to do what he'd struggled to do since coming to the SRU: connect. He'd failed Darren. He couldn't afford to fail Zeb too. Swallowing against the lump lodged in his throat, he spoke again: "Yeah. They did. I have to tell you. They were worried about you. Specs asked me to keep any eye on you until they could get back. They missed you there."

"They got to go back." Zeb spat angrily.

"Yeah – they got to go back. Is that what you want? To go back?" Sam asked. He was carefully shifting forward, putting himself between Zeb and his mother.

"I just want my fucking life back Sam. It's all fucked up." Zeb groaned.

"I know, Zeb. I know." Sam nodded understandingly. "This isn't the way you wanted things to go."

"I just … I can't do this anymore. I can't." He swore, angrily rapping the side of his head with the barrel of his gun.

"Just talk to me buddy. Tell me what's going on. Zeb. I'm your friend. I'm here to help."

"I can't."

"Yes you can. Just put down the gun, Zeb. We can do this together. Just put it down."

"_I can't_."

"Okay. We'll figure something else out."

"Afghanistan sucks the life out of you. It takes everything good in this world and warps it. Everything is fucked. We're losing too – they say we're winning. But we're not. How can you be winning when you're bringing people back in bodybags? The last roadside that we hit – the one that brought us home - I can still feel the heat from it sometimes. One minute I'm here, the next I'm standing in the desert being blown to the ground by this massive wave of fire."

"Yeah. I've been there. There's this moment before you realize what's happening when you think, just maybe, you're already home. You can't see anything because you're wrapped up in this cloud of sand; you can't hear anything at all because your eardrums are still shocked from the explosion. But then you hear the buzz. And you get sucked back."

Zeb stayed silent a minute.

"What happened to you over there Zeb?"

The room thrummed with raw, powerful energy. Zeb's eyes clenched against the angry images in his head - his hands raked through his hair, pulling and tugging. He needed something - _anything_ - to distract himself from the memories.

"You know why I left, Zeb. You know my battle. Tell me yours. Make me understand." Sam leaned forward.

"I killed a child, Sam." Zeb's voice was barely audible, hardly louder than a whisper. He hung his head between his legs, hands clasping at his aching head.

Sam's heart dropped. He _hated _that. He _hated_ that the Taliban would use their children as weapons. He hated staring through that scope at a boy too young to even shave, knowing that he'd have to pull the trigger. He remembered the day Zeb had to shoot a thirteen year old schoolboy and his eleven year old brother who'd each been strapped with enough C4 to blow an entire division into oblivion. He remembered watching, through his own scope, as the bullet cut down the boys who'd never really had a chance to be children – to run and laugh and know the joy of youth. Killing a child soldier would be hell on anybody. "Yeah, Zeb, we all did. I remember."

"No. You don't. The boys we killed? They were armed. So, as much as I hated to shoot them, I had no choice. No - I shot a child." Zeb buried his head in his hands and wept.

"You can tell me." Sam said softly.

"There was an accident. A head on collision on the highway at night. One of the cars' didn't have headlights and they rammed into each other. We saw the fire from the wreckage and stopped. The man driving the first car – we managed to pulled him out. He'd broken an arm, a leg. The other driver was dead on impact. So much blood. But we couldn't get to the daughter. The gas was spilling out everywhere – the whole thing was on fire. And the kid was screaming. She couldn't have been older than 5. She was so small. And she was pinned in the back of a burning car. We couldn't get to him. The flames were too intense and the fire was spreading too rapidly. She was in so much pain. I couldn't stand to watch her die – she was screaming in agony. Yelling for help. Screaming for her dead father to help him. I couldn't stand there and listen to her die like that. So I took out my gun and I shot her. I put a bullet in her brain. So she'd stop hurting."

"You did it out of mercy, Zeb. You couldn't have saved her. That bullet ended her life instantly. It stopped her from dying the most terrifying and painful death imaginable."

"She was just a baby."

Sam wasn't sure what to say. "I know Zeb. I know what it's like to have somebody's death on your hands – somebody that shouldn't have died. It haunts you. You didn't have a choice then – but you do now. So put the gun away. We'll walk out of here and nobody else has to die."

"Do you dream about it? Even when you're awake. It's like I can't escape."

"At first – all the time. Less now. It gets less. Gets better."

"But you'll never escape it."

Sam paused, caught between truth and lie. "No. You never escape it."

"It's a horrible place. We keep sending people there, though. You get through by telling yourself you're doing it for your country. To protect the people you love. You think, hey, once I get home everything is going to be fine. But that's a lie too." Zeb tapped the gun against the palm of his hand, the metal slapping against his calloused palm.

Sam nodded. "Is this about what happened between you and Katie, Zeb?"

Zeb's grip on the pistol tightened and the buzzing of the house phone broke the heavy silence. "I don't want to talk about Katie. I'm done." He said, calmly. "We're going to end this. Now."


	14. Freefall

Parker pushed back from the row of monitors in the truck, shoving his hat back to scratch his head. For once, in his seven years at the SRU, he had absolutely no idea what to do. He watched blankly at the monitor as Smithson paced pedantically back and forth across the kitchen floor. He just wasn't sure how to reach out to this man. The subject holding one of his team had lost his job, his wife, and was suffering from a severe case of post traumatic stress disorder. He was a man on the brink who, literally, had nothing left to lose. And it was his job to stop him from jumping off that metaphoric cliff and taking Sam and his mother with him.

"Okay team. What are our entry options." He asked, keeping his voice low and unhurried. He needed to stay in control – for the team to do their best. He needed to maintain that façade of calm.

"We don't have any." Came Ed's immediate and frustrated response. "Whole bottom floor is open-concept. He's going to see us coming from any angle. By the time we're in Sam's dead."

Sarge clenched a fist, pounding it against the table angrily. He rubbed his forehead viciously, until the skin beneath his sweaty palm turned an angry red. "We need a plan, people. We need some options."

"Sarge?" Jules voice pipped into his earpiece.

"Go ahead." He replied.

She exited the Borden headquarters building, jogging back across the lot towards the suburban. Behind her the same two uniformed escorts who'd shown her to the general's office scurried to keep pace.

"Finished with the General. Anthony Smithson was discharged following a physical altercation with a superior officer. According to his commander he's had a lot of trouble adjusting since returning from the last tour. He's had some behavioral issues. The last tour was really tough on their team. They lost a man to an I.E.D and another was injured pretty badly – he lost both legs. They're been hit pretty rough. Apparently there was a civilian car crash that affected him pretty badly. The general wouldn't say much on it – they were pretty close-lipped. But I get the feeling that it was pretty bad."

"Yeah. Smithson witnessed a pretty bad wreck in Afghanistan. Cars on fire, people trapped inside. Sam's got him talking about it right now." Sarge sighed heavily.

"How is Sam?" Jules couldn't stop the question from tumbling out.

"He's good, Jules. He's good. He's really good. Just keep focused." Sarge commanded her quietly.

"According to the commander Smithson took the discharge pretty rough. He said he needed to go back. He needed to protect his brothers. He was angry with the discharge. With his wife leaving and the rest of his unit getting deployed without him – his support system is falling apart around him."

"Yeah." The Sarge agreed, glancing at the monitor where Smithson was still pacing, frantically, pistol firmly locked in his grip. Anthony was in freefall.

"I got his medical file too. It wouldn't have mattered if he'd gotten into that fight anyway. He failed the psych eval. He wasn't going to get re-deployed anyway. Files says he had PTSD resulting in severe mood swings. The doctor prescribed him some pretty serious anti-depressants and Ambien."

"Ambien? That's a pretty powerful sleeping drug." Greg noted.

"Apparently he's been having trouble sleeping since returning from Afghanistan. Doctors note says that he suffers from night-terrors." Jules nodded to the escorts as she reached the SUV, climbing inside. They turned back in unison, jauntily headed back to the large glass building.

"Good work Jules." Sarge replied.

"Is the wife on her way in? I have a feeling she might have answers for us. We might be able to use her to get him to come out." Jules responded.

"Squad car picked up her ten minutes ago – she's on her way here as we speak." He assured her.

"Excellent. I can be there in five." Jules responded, pressing down on the clutch and easing the car out of the stall.

"No Jules." The sarge responded immediately. "I need you to go by Smithson's house. I need you to look for any information that can help with the profile. Anything we can use to get to Smithson."

Jules paused a moment. She wanted to get back to Sam. She wanted to be there. To help. The Sarge's voice was too calm. Jules knew, instinctively, that was a bad sign. It meant he'd progressed through the panic and his paternal need-to-keep-the-team-in-control instinct had kicked in. He was keeping her away because, if anything went wrong, he didn't want her to be able to blame herself. He was keeping her away so if things went south she wouldn't have to see.

_Goddamnit it._

"Jules the team needs you there. We've already got five people here who can't do anything until we've got a profile on this guy. We need to know what he wants. What's motivating him. We need to understand him. The team needs you to do this. Sam needs you ." The Sarge said, sensing her hesitancy.

Jules laid her head against the cool leather of the steering wheel.

"Right." She replied, shifting the car into drive. "On it, Sarge. Winnie – I need an address. And contact base officials. See if they can get me into the house."

**... ... ... ...**

The Smithson home was a small, one-story bungalow, no different from the rest of the identical white row houses edging the base's residential lanes. It was bordered on two sides by short wire fences and its postage-sized yard was slightly shaggy and overgrown, particularly in comparison to the manicured lawns that dominated the street.

Jules strode up the driveway, climbing onto the small porch to look through the windows. The lights were off – she could only make out the bare outline of furniture within the dark interior. A lone ceramic potter with the skeletal remains of what Jules surmised had once been a bush or shrub decorated the front porch. She repressed the urge to give it a mighty kick.

Hearing another car pull into the driveway behind her, Jules turned. A young man climbed out of a military jeep and marched up the driveway. His uniform was tightly and rigidly ironed, each crease and pleat had a dagger-like precision. The man's face was still chubby with baby fat, his hair shorn so close to his head that his pale scalp shone through.

Base security, Jules surmised.

"Ma'am." He said curtly. "Private White. I was sent to let you into the Smithson residence." He slipped a hand into his breast pocket, withdrawing a little silver key on a small metal loop.

"Do discharged families often get to continue living on base?" Jules asked, waiting as he unlocked the front door.

"No. With dishonourable discharges they're asked to leave immediately but Corporal Smithson was dismissed with full honours. The base allows former personnel time to find new accommodations and move off-post. They're not required to leave immediately. Usually they're given a grace period of several months." He answered quickly, his words clipped, his tone informative. He reminded Jules of the automated voice services that companies used to save money. The ones that made you want to rip your hair out.

The lock gave an audible click and the young man pushed the door in ahead of her. "I'm not allowed to enter the premises. I will wait for you here." He said. Jules nodded in response, stepping through the threshold and into the house.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. The living room was small – the furniture a jumbled mismatch of items that Jules imagined was pretty standard for a military couple. You could get relocated at a moment's notice. A series of bookshelves of varying heights and colours ranged down the main wall. Their uneven shelves bowed low beneath the weight of the books. They seemed to tumble from the walls themselves, a spill of colourful, glossy covers and yellowed pages. War and Peace was snuggled up beside an extremely old copy of A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh. Everything from Shakespeare and Milton to Grisham were crowded together in a jumbled mass of papers. The whole room smelled kind of like a library – the dry and musky scent of books permeated the stale air.

The wife, Katherine, was a English Literature major, creative writing minor at the University of Victoria, Jules reminded herself. Worked at a publishing firm as an editor's assistant. The books would mostly be hers, Jules imagined.

The entire room was coated in a thick layer of dust. It clung to the spines of the books, laying like a thick carpet on every surface. It was clear that nothing had moved in weeks. It was as if time had stood still.

Jules circled the room. There were pictures – lots of them. A picture of a group of men, all dressed in their khaki desert camouflage, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Jules recognized it. Sam had the same one. She glanced at the photo recognizing the glint of brilliant blond hair – the cocky grin. Jules quickly set that frame down. She couldn't afford to waste time dwelling. The next photo was of his wife, Katherine, in her graduation gown, black hair tumbling around her shoulders as she tossed her cap in the air. In another she posed with and another woman, as small and fairylike as Anthony's wife was tall and Amazonian. Jules skimmed past more photos – of Anthony and his crew, of the couple, of Katherine. Of people and places. She fell a dizzying pull at a picture of Anthony and Sam, dressed casually in jeans standing in a field of long grass.

There was a picture of the Anthony and Katherine on a rocky beach, the deep rich ocean spread out behind them, dotted with enormous emerald green islands, rising from the blue water like mountains. _Last day in Zeballos_ the frame read. That's what the team called him, Jules realized. _Zeb._

They must have been highschool sweethearts, she thought, flipping back to the graduation pictures.

To the left she spotted a framed series of wedding pictures, stopped. In the first Katie, a young raven-haired beauty in a white lace gown, laughed at the camera, arms wrapped tightly around a much less troubled look Anthony. He flashed a sly grin. They looked incredibly, deliriously happy. Stupid with it in fact. The second was a more subdued shot. Set against a flurry of activity, Katie was leaning against Anthony, resting her forehead against his. A private, tender moment away from the chaos of the reception. A couple deeply, madly in love. Jules slipped the picture out of the frame, tucking it into her pocket. Could come in handy.

Turning, Jules headed down the short hallway, floorboards creaking with each step. She pushed open the nearest door, stepping into the narrow bathroom. It was tiny – almost claustrophobically so. Swinging open the mirrored medicine cabinet Jules surveyed the toiletries. Accompanying the lone toothbrush were a full compliment of men's toiletries – a razor, aftershave, deodorant and artic-scented body wash. Jules frowned, pulled out each drawer of the small vanity. No curling irons or blow dryers, no hair ties or moisturizers. No girly shampoo in the shower. Nothing.

A nearly full bottle of Ambien sat abandoned in one corner of the cabinet. Jules glanced at the date. He had been due for a re-fill on the prescription three days ago. But he'd barely used any. The seal on the tiny brown vial with the anti-depressants wasn't even cracked.

He wasn't taking his meds, Jules though, moving quickly towards the adjoining bedroom. She surveyed the room. The bed was unmade – as if somebody has just crawled out of it. But the dust lay as thickly in this room as it had in the others. Drawers hung open some empty, others half so, their jumbled contents spilling out as if desperate hands had just rummaged through them. The closet doors were flung open. It was nearly empty of female clothes – just a few things near the back of the closet. Instead, rows of empty wire hangers sat on the long metal rod.

From the looks of it Jules surmised that Katherine had been gone for months.

She clicked her radio back on, speaking rapidly into it.

"Sarge. It doesn't look like either Katherine or Anthony have been here in the last few weeks. It looks like almost all of Katie's clothes and toiletries are gone. Some of Anthony's are still here but I get the feeling he didn't stay long after Katie left. Just grabbed what he needed and left. He hasn't been taking his medicine. Found the Ambien. Doesn't look like it's very well used. He didn't even touch the anti-depressants."

"Thanks Jules." Sarge responded.

"You should check financials. See where they've been staying in the mean time. Because they weren't here, I'll tell you that." Jules ran a finger over the surface of the dresser's long mirror. When she pulled back it was black with dirt and dust.

"I've got all I can here, Sarge. I'm on my way back." Jules informed him, turning to leave.

She'd almost reached the door when she saw it – a glimmer. The glint of something golden lodged in the fibres of the carpet. Carefully, she walked back to the bed, getting down on her hands and knees to search for the source of the glinting. She ran her hands over the grey threads until her hand struck the object. A wedding band, she realized, plucking it from the floor. It was small – Katie's no doubt – a small gold ring inscribed on the inside with a handful of words. _I carry your heart with me_ it said. A piece of paper had fallen near the ring. Turning it over, Jules heart sank. In a scrawling handwriting was a short message.

_I can't do this anymore, Tony. I love you. Goodbye._

It wasn't signed, the ink smudged by tears. His or hers, Jules had no idea. Jules rocked back on her heels, biting back a curse, viciously.

But that wasn't the only thing under the bed. She could see a dark shadow of an object, shoved under the metal frame. Getting down on her stomach Jules thrust an arm under the bed. Stretching her hand out Jules could feel it – just past her fingertips. They brushed against it. She wriggled further, hand just managing to clasp it within her firm grip. She yanked it out, staring down at it dumbly.

It was another book.

Baby and You, the cheerfully title read. A Complete Guide to Pregnancy and Motherhood.

_What the hell? _She thought. "Christ. Isn't that just perfect."

**... ... ... ... **

AN: Hi guys - sorry for the delay. If things are confusing, I promise everything will be made clear in the next chapter or so. I hope you enjoy.


	15. Contact

_AN: It's been SUCH a long bloody time since I updated this story and, for that, I must apologize. I had a summer work-study in Italy excavating an archaeological site. Really really cool, but not totally condusive to writing. So when I got back and saw how many lovely reviews people had left and now many more people had subscribed to this story I was truly amazed. So thanks, everyone. You guys rock my world._

_Trying to jump back into writing after taking two months off is painfully bad - so thanks to SYuuri for beta-ing this chapter for me and helping make sure it's not entirely rubbish._

**...**

Parker studied the monitor in the van, watching the feed from the snake-cam propped against the kitchen sill. The team hovered behind him, each searching for that little flaw, that little gap, that little chink in the armour that would let them in. They weren't accustomed to inaction. They wanted to move – and they wanted to move now. The air practically buzzed with the desire – the desperate need – to act.

Sweat was beading on the subject's forehead and he swiped at it viciously. The temperature inside the kitchen must have been damn near boiling, the oven door still propped open to disturb any heat-sensing equipment. The subject was smart. Too smart, in Parker's estimation.

Parker carefully weighed his options. He had years of experience. He'd written the damn manual. He knew when to push and when to wait, drawing the subject out to you. And he wasn't sure that Zeb wouldn't crack under pressure. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, compiled with the loss of his wife, his only family, and being dismissed from his position on a team that had been trained to serve as brothers. Guilt, anger, resentment, loyalty – Zeb was a festering wound of raw emotions. A minefield where a wrong step would spell the end for Sam or his mother.

But they couldn't wait any longer, he thought, looking at the increasingly fragile looking Mrs. Braddock. Her colour had flushed with the intense heat in the kitchen, staining her cheeks a dark ink, but in the last twenty minutes had shot straight to pale. Her eyes were glazed, either with shock or from dehydration. And her movements had become sloppy and sluggish. It wouldn't do for the hostage to freeze in the middle or an armed intervention. Even if they managed to get inside the house, they needed her to be coherent enough to follow directions. Rational enough to seek cover and hide.

He picked up the phone. "Re-establishing contact with subject." He stated, rattling off the time for the auto-recorder device.

He watched as the surprised Anthony spun for the phone.

"Hey son. It's Sergeant Greg Parker with the Strategic Response Unit. How's everything inside right now? Is everybody okay?" He spoke calmly and quickly.

"I imagine you already know." Came Zeb's snappy response. "You've got a snake-cam on the window. You tell me. We look okay?"

The camera had been a risk, given his extensive military training, but they'd had to take it.

"You're looking a little frazzled right now. A little stressed. Anthony, I don't think this is what you wanted. I know you don't want to hurt Sam. I know that. You know that." Parker was banking on it – the close bond of men who'd had to place their lives in each other's hands.

"No." Zeb rubbed his aching eyes furiously. He was just _so _tired. "I don't want to hurt him." Parker's racing heart slowed a beat with Zeb's admission.

"I know you don't want to hurt Sam's mom either." Greg persisted.

"No. She wasn't even supposed to be here. It wasn't supposed to be her." Zeb clenched his hand around the gun tighter, feeling the steel shift in his sweaty palm.

_Wasn't supposed to be her_? Greg wondered. _Who the hell was his target __**supposed **__to be?_

"That's good. That's really good. Anthony, I know you're hurting right now. We know about losing your family, about losing Katie, the job. We know you saw things that no person should ever have to see. I can see you're in a lot of pain. But you know that this is not the answer. You're a solider. You've seen war and you _know _that taking innocent people hostages isn't right or fair. You're better than that Anthony. You're a better man than that. Put down the gun. We can all walk away from here today."

Zeb shook his head furiously. "Can't."

"What do you want, Tony? What do you think you can get out of this?"

Zeb paced for a moment, not responding. "I don't know. I don't know. This wasn't the plan. This is all screwed up. I can't … I can't deal with this right now. I just need to think. I need a minute to think." He groaned.

"We understand. I know you're under a lot of stress. I'd like to get you some help. I think Sam would probably like for you to get some help too. He cares about you, you know. We've been in contact with the rest of your team."

"They're midflight." Zeb blinked rapidly, struggling to keep a firm grip on the tears that were threatening to form.

"Yeah. They are. We've been in radio contact with their flight. Somebody named Bear wanted to turn the plane straight around. And Specs said he'd kick your ass if you did anything stupid. Your men care about you. They want you to walk out of here safely. I promised them I'd try." Greg relayed.

There was a silence on the other end.

"If they were here what do you think they'd want you to do, Zeb? Would they want you to put down the gun?" Greg pressured.

"Goodbye Greg." Zeb said, dropping the phone to the floor. It shattered, useless pieces skittering and spinning across the hard white surface. He could barely see them through the hazy of watery tears. He ran an angry hand over his face, flicking them away. Weakness. Tears were a sign of weakness. He had to be strong for this next part.

"Zeb." Sam said, standing, palms facing outwards. When Zeb didn't bother raisng the gun he took a step forward. "Zeb, tell me what's going on. Why this house? Who lives here? Why are you coming after them."

"You don't know?" Zeb looked confused. "Of course you don't know." He mumbled to himself. He picked up a picture frame from beneath the window sill, where it had fallen during the chaos of the gunshot. Sam looked down in horror to see his father beaming back at him, arm slung companionably around a small blonde girl in a pair of even smaller pink shorts. She was kissing his cheek and, when he looked past the startling pair he could see the very house they were standing in now.

"Your father is having an affair with the girl who lives here. She's 23. She's younger than you, Sam. The girl was still in pigtails when your father took general and added that final leaf to his insignia. He bought her this house – their own little _love shack_." He spat out the last world, repulsed and disgusted. "It's disgusting."

Sam looked to his mother first. "Is … is it true Mom?" He'd known his parents marriage wasn't perfect. But, good god, he hadn't know his father was off diddling a girl young enough to be his daughter.

"I didn't know until last week. I saw … I saw the credit card receipt for a necklace. One he'd bought but he'd never given it to me. He said it was from last Christmas – the ruby pendant. But the date said it was last month. I just had this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomache. I got our phone records. And I saw her name over and over again. I followed his car out here Monday. Just to see. To make sure with my own eyes." His mother said, voice haltering at each sentence.

"I'm sorry Mom." He hated his father – he despised him for putting that devastated look on his mother's face. "I am so sorry Mom."

"Not your fault Sammy." She tried to smile, patting his cheeks gently. "Not your fault at all. He's had affairs before – at least one other that I know of. I turned a blind eye to it. It made me think … that if I were more dedicated, if I tried harder to be a better wife – a better general's wife that would make him happy and he'd stop." His mother's eyes filled with tears, lower lip warbling in what Sam knew was a dead give-away that she was about to cry.

He'd have sooner faced a junkie in a back-alley with a machete naked and handcuffed than face his crying mother.

"I came here today to put a bullet in his black, lying heart." Zeb said. Sam's mother sucked in a shaky breath, pressing a hand to her chest, mouth dropping open in shock.

Silence reigned supreme.

"Why? His affair has nothing to do with you." Sam finally said, pressing a hand to his throbbing temple. He leaned against the counter and slid back down to the floor.

"Not because he's a adulterous scum-bag. I wanted to do it for you, Sammy." Zeb responded. Sam felt a drop of sweat trickle down his back, leaving a cold and clammy line down his spine. He felt suddenly frozen, despite the rising heat of the room.

"Me? But why?" Sam asked.

"For you and all the others. He has to be stopped Sam. He's destroyed so many lives already. I couldn't let him destroy any more." Zeb crouched in front of him, their eyes locked.

"What do you mean, Zeb?" Sam rubbed his brow in confusion.

"You like your life now, right? You're happier. We could all see that you were happier. You were good at your job in the army. But it didn't make you happy like what you're doing now." The corner of Zeb's mouth crooked up in a smile as spoke.

"Yeah. Yeah I am happy. But … I don't understand, Zeb." Sam heard his own voice reply – it resounded hollowly in his head.

Zeb leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart, dropping his voice to a whisper. Inside the van thirty feet away the team pressed closer to the monitor, silent, ears straining to pick up Zeb's muted words. "He wants you back in the military, Sam. Wants you to follow in Daddy's footsteps. Look good, being a legacy and all. All the fine work you're doing at the SRU. He's already got it spun for when you return, Sam. 'General's son fostering co-operation with police units by working with elite policing task force'. He's determined to have you back at any cost."

"He doesn't get a choice. I make my own decisions. You _know_ that Zeb. He doesn't get a say in where I go. Even if he got me fired, pull all those connections he has, I wouldn't go back." Sam could feel the nauseating waves of anger bubbling up inside him. His fists clenched instinctively and automatically.

Zeb nodded. "He knows that too. When I was standing outside his office waiting for the discharge I heard things. He's got a plan to backdoor draft soldiers in the military. They found some loophole that'll let them stop-loss men wanting to leave. Send them on another tour. You wouldn't have a choice, Sam."

"Zeb, you know I was discharged. Honourably discharged. I can't be stop-lossed."

"No. But Bear can and Specs. And everyone else you served with. They could be stop-lossed over and over again."

Sam's throat closed. His father wouldn't use his allegiance to his former team-mates like that he told himself. But he knew better. His father wasn't accustomed to losing. He'd do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted. His father was practically a living embodiment of Machivelli's _The End Justifies the Means. _It was practically his own motto. He would do that. And more.

It made the rising flood of rage inside Sam just swell faster and higher. Using his friends and teammates to strike at him. It was low and dirty and manipulative. And something he had no problem envisioning his father do. His Dad wasn't just the type who'd kick a man when he was down, but pump a few bullets in him and set his corpse on fire. His father was an ambitious, selfish asshole. He always had been, Sam realized, sitting in the boiling kitchen.

"He'd ... use you all against me?" Sam spoke slowly, as if the words were foreign to him.

"Your dad's counting on it, the crafty asshole. If you don't co-operate he'll stop-loss Bear. He's put in his eight years and now he's looking to discharge. He wants to be around for his kid. And your father will keep sending him back – over and over and over again. He'll recall Stripes and Digit. Everybody you've ever worked with or cared about. He's got your number Sam. You wouldn't have a choice; he'd use all your loyalties against you." Zeb's look was one of pity and understanding.

Zeb angled his head, tapping the barrel of the gun in his hand once again. "It goes beyond even you, though. Think of how many people would get sucked back in with this. Think about it. The thousands of men and women and families who've moved on, suddenly back in this nightmare. Recalled to active duty. All because he needed a way to get to you. Control you."

"Christ. Jesus Christ." Sam buried his head in his hands. He couldn't form a single coherent thought. The chaos. Would his father really go through all that trouble just to control him? Just to bring him back into the metaphoric fold?

The General had made comments before. When was Sam ready to come back and get down to _real _work. The army needed good soldiers like him. Was he ready to be a man, stand up and serve his country? He could make a _difference _on JTF2. But he never thought he'd take it that far. Derailing thousands of lives without so much as batting an eyelash. Just to manipulate him.

"At first, when I heard, I didn't care. I was too wrapped up in my own shit. But once I thought about it, I realized that what he was doing was wrong. I have to do it, Sam. I have to shoot him. I got nobody left but the brothers I served with. I can't let him stab them in the back like this. They deserve better than this. Your father – de-enlisting me destroyed my life. I won't let him ruin yours too. Or anyone else's. His time's done, Sam. He's a monster. He needs to be stopped." Zeb's eyes never left his own, never strayed.

Sam swallowed the dryness in his throat. "Okay." He said simply. "Okay."

AN: Alllll right. So, again, thanks for sticking with me through the delays. I know some of the legalities and technicalities probably make a back-door draft impossible if not improbable, but it's fiction, so I hope you can forgive that. Review - love or hate. It makes my day.


	16. Restraint

_AN: Hey Guys - sorry. The inaccuracies in the last chapter were driving me nuts so I finessed the details until they were less ... far-fetched to me. So that's why I deleted and re-added chapter 15. It's mostly the same, just a bit of the dialogue was changed. Sorry to any subscribers if you got that alert for a new chapter and were confused. My bad - apologies of course._

_Just a quickie for now. I don't get my computer back until tomorrow of the next day earliest so I've just jacked my roomie's for a few hours._

_Again, the support on the last chapter was fantastic. Thank you to every single person who reviewed. You guys are wonderful._

**...**

Jules had always hated the phrase 'deafening silence' – she wasn't even sure she believed in silence. There was always a hum in the background, an audible breath drawn, the faint scratch of a branch on a window pane, the distant mewling of a bird in a tree. There was always noise. But in that van, pressed close against her teammates to see the monitor, hand pressing the microphone more soundly against her eardrum, she would have said that silence didn't just exist. The rest of the world melted away but for that picture on that screen, but for the faint whispered words in her ear.

Yes. Silence was real and it screamed of wrongfulness. It shrieked of something unnatural and dangerous. It was completely real and it was, just as the adage said, deafening.

She could read the waves of emotion across his face: confusion, disbelief, anger, betrayal, anger. Hurt. That was the worst. The look of pain that flashed across his face before his mouth hardened into a thin, taut line and he murmured those horrifying words.

Okay?

Okay what? Jules wanted to yell at the monitor. What are you agreeing to? What unspoken thoughts had been exchanged? What did he mean?

She wanted them to say something else, but instead Zeb just levelled the gun at the camera and blasted one shot into the lens, destroying any possibility of eavesdropping onto his plans. Spike lurched towards the monitor furiously tapping keys in an effort to restore video, but they all knew it would be futile. As durable as the snake-cams were they weren't meant to be used for bloody target practice. One bullet could easily disable the device.

Nobody spoke – no words could break the steely bond of silence over Team One.

"Sergeant?" The forgotten radio crackled to life on the dash, the tones of one of the officers positioned around the perimeter cutting into the tense atmosphere of the van. Sighing Parker lifted the receiver to respond.

"General Henry Braddock is on scene demanding to speak with you." The officer nervously stuttered, not waiting for Parker's response.

The team froze, like in some kind of garish tableau. Then – chaos.

Leah's eyebrows shot up in shock, hand falling to her side. Her mouth opened as if to form some intelligible words but nothing but a low whistle passed through her lips. Spike collapsed into his chair, a string of Italian curses mumbled under his breath.

Wordy had to slap a hand on the door to keep Ed from prising it open.

"Lemme go." He grunted, shoving at the handle which Wordy clung to with all his strength. "I'm going to tear him limb from limb until he's nothing but a sodding mushy pulp of flesh and bone." He hissed angrily heaving with all his body weight.

"We need you here Ed." Wordy said, shielding the door with his body. "We can't deal with both situations at once. We need you with us. If you want to help Sam you need to stay." He grunted. Ed seemed to relent, the red foggy haze that had stormed his brain at hearing that the General responsible for this disaster of a day was on scene receding. He turned, instead, to pace across the small expanse of the van, his steps jerky as he struggled to reign in his temper.

Parker nodded, rubbing his weary eyes. He was getting a mother of a headache. He was trying to tell himself to be calm, but he couldn't fight the rising bubble of hysteria in his mind. One he hadn't felt since the day of the blast at the technical college. The day they'd lost Lou. God help him if they lost another team-mate.

Jules face read of the icy controlled rage that the team knew was most dangerous. The kind of barely contained anger, glinting with the potential of violence, that they were well versed in spotting and defusing. Good, Greg thought. Better to be angry than to be scared.

"Restrain General Braddock. Bodily if necessary." Greg commanded the officer over the radio, setting it back on the dark desk with a snap.

"I do hope that it is necessary." Leah murmured. Greg couldn't help but agree.

_AN: That's it for now! Just wanted to show how the team reacts to the latest developments. Love to everyone who reads and/or reviews._


	17. Hostage

"You should get your mom out of here." Zeb nodded over his shoulder to Mrs. Braddock's wilted form. She was curled against the oak cabinets, pressed backwards as if she was trying to disappear into the wood itself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, face flushed from the heat of the room. Her usually finely coiffed hair was limp from the heat, plastered around her delicate face by the sweat. The room was sweltering with unbearable heat, growing warmer every moment.

Sam shifted until he was in front of her, careful not to startle her. "Mom?" Her eyes, the same blue-green as his own, snapped open, darting around the room. She was shocky, pupils dilated. As her hand reached out to grip his shoulder he could see it quake.

"We're going to get you out of here Mom." He said, helping her rise to her feet. She swayed, legs quaking beneath as if they couldn't quite bear her weight. God – had she always been this small, Sam wondered, staring down at the top of her head. She barely came to his shoulder. She'd never seemed too fragile to him. She'd always been his sturdy, steady mother. The rock in his childhood. The only true and loving constant in the revolving door of schools, houses, bases, friends and places that had been his life up until he was 18. She'd been the parent he'd always turned to with his problems, with his hurts. She was the one who knew him. It pained him to see her so broken – so tired and exhausted, overwhelmed and devastated.

She rolled her head, trying to clear away the dizziness of dehydration. He could feel the pinpricks of thirst in his own mouth, the painful dryness in his throat. He tried to swallow and wet that dry passage but the parched passage just clenched painfully.

Deeming her too unsteady to make the trip herself, Sam carefully he lifted his mother into his arms moving quickly down the short hallway to the back door. He could sense, rather than hear, Zeb moving up the hall behind him, not wanting to hover. He shifted his mother so he could twist the doorknob and ease it open slightly. His muscles ached with fatigue. He was strong and well trained, but the shock of Zeb's revelation and the heat was rapidly zapping his strength.

"Coming out." He tried to shout, but it only came out as a weak croak. Frowning he cleared his voice and tried again, pleased that it was stronger this time. "We're coming out." He heard the panicked rookie stationed to guard the perimeter fumbling with their radio, calling into the van. He eased the door open a crack further. Cool air whipped through the jamb, pricking against his burning face. The beads of sweat on his brow turned to ice on his forehead. Though today was a relatively warm spring day the air felt nearly arctic in comparison to the burning heat of the kitchen. In his arms his mother shrank closer to him, away from the chilly grasp of the wind. He shifted so that she'd be better sheltered from the cool air.

Through the crack he saw the team scrambling around the edge of the house, Wordy sprinting past Ed, shield firmly in grip. He dimly saw Jules' face before it disappeared as she took her place alongside Wordy behind the metal barrier. He was painfully aware of Ed's position ten meters back, gun braced and ready to shoot. He knew Zeb would be too, which was why he slunk back against the wall behind the door. Their eyes locked over his mothers head.

"Be safe. Be quick." Zeb said. "We've got work to do, Braddock."

He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Don't shoot. I'm coming out with a civilian." He shouted, booting the door open with his foot and stepping out into the small back yard. The cool air hit him like a Mack Truck and his knees nearly gave way from the shock of it. He gave a quick involuntary shiver. His entire body felt like it was being pricked with needles. Too great a change in too short a time, he thought.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps snapped him back into reality. The metal shield was approaching; he could see two pairs of boots moving as one under the bottom edge. There was a seamless transaction as Wordy passed the shield to Jules so he would be free to take Mrs. Braddock. He felt strong arms shifting his mother from his own. It felt like a burden lifted, his arms screaming with relief. Jules' hand closer over his forearm – it was cool on his fevered skin.

"Sam." Her heart was pounding. He was safe. He was out of the house. Everything would be okay now. They had him back. She could breathe again. She felt like she had when she was six and had fallen under the ice while skating on the lake. She'd clawed at it, nails on ice, not being able to find her back to the surface. She couldn't breathe. Black dots danced across her vision. And then, miraculously, she'd found it: the place where the ice had given way and, pushing up, lungs burning, had drawn that first deep breath. It was the kind of intense relief that makes your bones go soft and your madly thumping heart slow a beat.

She knew she shouldn't have touched him. But she had to. It didn't seem real. He was burning hot, but solid beneath her palm.

"Take care of her." He whispered, not sure his voice would hold.

It took her only a moment to realize what he was planning to do. A moment too long. For he had twisted from her grip and was slipping back into the house. Jules barely registered Sam's mother shriek his name, or Wordy's involutary and futile step forward to try and block his route. She lunged, but missed as he disappeared back into the gaping doorway. It hung open a few seconds longer, like a gaping, mouth mocking her, before it slowly swung shut again.

They'd lost him again.

_AN: I hope y'all enjoyed. I noticed yesterday and still can't believe. Over 100 reviews! You guys are amazing. Thanks for reading.  
_


	18. Everything

Hi again - sorry for the bit of a delay. I've got the story planned, I'm just having a hard time getting it from point A to point B at times. Your comments, as always, were extremely helpful and reading them definitely got me motivated to write this chapter. I hope you enjoy it. It's not perfect, but I figured I'd kept you guys waiting for too long already. Next chapter will be a little more ... exciting methinks.

**...**

Jules briskly strode back to the van, slamming open the door. She needed answers. And she knew there was only one place she could get them.

"Why?" She demanded, slapping the door shut behind her.

Sarge gave a knowing nod to Spike. "See if you can reroute audio from Sam's cell. It's a longshot but worth the effort." Spike nodded, slipping past Jules with a sympathetic look, to jump out and reposition the van's antennae.

"Why did he go back in Sarge?" Jules asked again, taking a step forward into the hulk of the van. "Why would he go back? I need to know. I need to understand."

"I don't know." Sarge said softly, a hard hand falling to rest firmly on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you because I don't know the answer myself." Her eyes threatened to fill and she blinked rapidly to clear away that embarrassing sheen of tears. Sarge knew everything. _Everything. _Why didn't he know this?

"Why didn't he just come out? Why didn't he stay with us?" She asked.

"Julianna." Sarge sighed. Her heart sunk. He so rarely used her full name. "I don't know. But we need to know what they're planning now though. We need to find out so nobody else gets hurt. Mrs. Braddock is being treated by paramedics. They had to give her a mild sedative. Wordy didn't have much success with her – she was pretty incoherent. Maybe you'd have more luck. She's just been betrayed by her husband, held at gunpoint and watched her son walk back into a hostage situation – she might respond better to a woman."

Jules shook her head firmly. "Sarge. I can't leave him there. I can't."

"Mrs. Barbara Braddock is still on scene. She refuses to leave until she sees Sam again. You'd be right here. Nothings going to happen to him." He reasoned. When she hesitated he played the trump card. "He asked you to take care of her, Jules." With that she spun on her heel, stomping back to the door and wrenching it open. A sputtering Spike fell through. Jules merely growled and pushed past him.

"He told her to take care of his mother." Spike repeated.

"Yeah." Sarge murmured.

"The last thing Lou did was call his mother." Spike's words were heavy and measured, weighing down on Greg like a load of bricks. "You don't think he'll do anything stupid do you?" He asked, brow furrowed with worry.

"No." Greg answered, wishing he were more certain about his answer.

**...**

**...**

Jules slipped under the rope of tapes cordoning off the house, giving a curt nod to two of the containing officers. She raised an eyebrow at the line of journalists and camera-men jockeying for a better view of the house. Spotting the distinctive grey uniform, several pushed their microphones out at her, urging her for a soundbite, shouting overtop of one another. Their voices, too smooth and glibe, were laced with more than subtle hint of desperation. Their perfectly coiffed hair and razor-straight teeth was reason enough to distrust them, in Jules opinion, but the predatory gleam under the thick layer of polish certainly didn't help their case in Jules' opinion.

"No comment." She rolled her eyebrows to the detectives. She gave a quick rap on the ambulance doors and, when the swung open, easily levered herself up and inside. She always kind of hated the inside of ambulances. She'd been in many. But the one that seemed to stick had been the ride where she'd been strapped the metal stretcher, flittering between the deep pull of unconsciousness and the gasping bright pain of being awake, pumping blood out of a gaping gunshot. Swallowing the vile, coppery taste the memory conjured, she lowered herself beside Mrs. Braddock.

She had an oxygen mask taped over her mouth and nose, fogging with each breath. From the clouds of vapour swirling inside the thick plastic Mrs. Braddock's breathing had slowed considerable. When Sam had disappeared back behind the door she'd gone from a fragile shocked to a hysteric, panicked state in seconds, screaming for her son. She was more placid now, sedated, sitting quietly on the massive stretcher. It dominated and dwarfed her. A thin blue blanket was stretched across her body, tucked in tightly around the edges of the metal bed. Jules knew exactly the texture of the blanket, the worn pilled fabric rubbing against skin. She focused on the dripping IV, attached to Mrs. Braddock at the forearm, watching the liquid dribble down the tubes and into the vein. Sam's mother was still deadly pale, her skin almost translucent under the sour lights of the ambulance. Her eyes were massive – round saucers of fear in her small face.

"Mrs. Braddock? Officer Callaghan." She introduced herself slowly. "I need to ask you some questions."

The older woman gave a furious nod, squirming to sit more upright. Her hand, weak and clumsy, came up to fumble with the mask dragging it aside so she could speak.

"You're Jules." She stated, her voice low and shaky.

"Yes. I am." Jules replied. It wasn't hard to guess that Sam had told his mother about their relationship. He'd once said that his mother had wanted to meet her – that I t had been the hardest part of his visit home. It wouldn't be hard for her to deduce that she was her son's former fling. Mrs. Braddock was a smart woman, after all.

"My son. He's in love with you." Sam's mother's hand covered her own on the cold metal railing of the ambulance bed.

"Was, maybe." Jules said, uneasily shifting.

"Is." She persisted quietly, keeping Jules' hand trapped between the icy iron pole of the stretcher and her own palm, burning hot. "He cares about you. I know. I can see it in his face when he says your name. He's my little boy after all. A mother can tell."

There was a silence for a moment as Jules scrambled for something to say "I. … I don't know what to tell you."

"You don't have to tell me anything. I had plenty of choice things to say to you. I figured you'd be some cheap floozy who sunk her claws into my baby and stomped on his heart for fun. When he came home, I could tell he was hurting. And I wanted to be angry at you for it. But I can see now that you love him too." Sam's mother sighed. "I know you love him too."

"I don't." Jules protested weakly. "I can't."

His mother's smile was grim and knowing. "I think you know you are."

Jules looked away. It would be hard to lie to her when Sam's eyes stared back at her from her face. She was too tired to lie.

"I need him to be safe. I need to get him out of there." Jules voice hitched and she yanked hard on the reigns of control to bring it back under her steely grip. "Do you remember anything Sam or Anthony Smithson said after they shot out the snake cam? Do you remember anything about their plan?"

"No. They were speaking in code. It didn't make sense to me. And I was so tired and thirsty. I couldn't focus on anything in particular."

"Okay. Okay." Jules licked her lips. "Can you take me through everything that happened? From the moment you arrived? Maybe you'll remember something."

Barbara nodded before starting slowly, as if unsure where to begin. "I let myself in. The key was on his keychain. I was hoping … that it wouldn't fit. But it did. And then I figured, what the hell, if you're going to confront the twenty-something year old grad student whose having an affair with your husband you really shouldn't have to knock."

"I didn't hear anything when I walked in the front door. I don't know how long I stood inside the door. I guess I was waiting for the courage to come to me. Then the doors swinging in behind me and there's this gun in my face. He looked …. He looked surprised. And then I took off running. I dropped the keys and ran." Mrs. Braddock's voice trembled – Jules could see the fear running across her face clear as day. Reliving the terrifying event was harrowing for the woman.

"I made it to the kitchen. I didn't know which door to take though. I could hear the other man's footsteps behind me and I had to chose. I just opened one and dove in – just my bad luck it was the pantry. My cell was in my hand and I just punched the first number I thought of."

"Sam." Jules said calmly, her voice fighting to stray strong.

Sam's mother gave the briefest of nods, blond head bobbing gently. "Yes. Sam. I wanted to tell him … that I loved him. I just wanted him to know that I was so proud of the man he's become."

"Then what?" Jules prodded.

"The man ripped the door open. I thought he was going to shoot me. I begged him not to. He kept saying … 'What are you doing here? Why are you here?'. He was angry. He just kept saying 'This wasn't the plan'. He saw the phone and started screaming. I guess he thought I called the cops."

Mrs. Braddock continued. "He man dragged me into the kitchen. That's where Sam found us. The man … he shot at Sam. The sound – it was deafening. I saw him jump but … there was no blood. It took me a minute to realize he'd missed."

She looked at Jules, meeting her brown eyes with her own, the same shape and colour as Sam's. "He called him by name – he knew him. Sam called him Zeb. They were in the same unit, I think. He was trying to calm him down but … this guy was just in another world. It was just like … everything else disappeared. It sounds weird but it was like … a caged animal fighting for survival." She shuddered with remembrance.

"He just kept saying he didn't mean to. That it wasn't part of the plan." Barbara said.

"And then?" Jules prodded gently.

"He said that Henry was going to blackmail Sam into going back to JTF2. He said that they were going to make it possible to draft inactive duty servicemen back to Afghanistan."

"It seems rather extreme, Mrs. Braddock. Why does your husband want Sam back in the military so badly?" Jules felt the temper rising in her throat again. She couldn't afford to let it get the better of her. But she couldn't help but be angry. General Braddock had been given a gift – Sam. And instead of loving him for the person he was and respecting him for the choices he'd made, he'd bullied and manipulated. It had Jules' blood boiling.

Barbara's hands clasped one another, toying with her wedding band nervously. "I don't know. He's so happy where he is right now. He loves his work, he loves the city. I love having him home, safe. JTF2 – it's not like the other branches. You don't hear about attacks on them. It's all hush hush. I used to live in fear that a little black sedan would pull up at our house to tell me he was dead. Or that my husband would come home and tell me our child was killed in action. My heart would stop when he said Sam's name."

"It must have been difficult for you." Jules responded sympathetically.

"It was. Henry … Henry hates not being in control. He was the one who arranged for Sam to leave the military after the friendly fire incident. Sam was pressing for an inquest. And it was safer for Henry to have an honourably discharged son than it was to have a son in the midst of a heated investigation over a fellow Canadian's death. But once the storm had passed, and he realized how good Sam was at doing his job he wanted him back. He needed to be in control again. Sam said no and … I'm not surprised that my husband tried to bring him back under any means possible. He needs control. He needs power."

Barbara sighed, patting Jules hand. Her voice was ragged. The effort to speak was clearly draining her – her breaths were becoming more ragged, her eyes more droopy with the effort to keep them open.. Jules caught the paramedics movements from the corner of her eye – he was rechecking Mrs. Braddock's vitals and, from the deeply furrowed frown told Jules that she should probably hurry the interview along.

Mrs. Braddock slid a hand across her pale face, as if she could scrub off the tired. "The young man – Sam's friend – he was planning to kill my husband. He was waiting for him. He thought it would be Henry walking through those doors. If he shot him the draft would be lost and those men would be able to keep living their regular lives. And Sam too."

"Yes." Jules agreed.

"Now he won't have a chance to carry through that plan." Mrs. Braddock stated.

"No he won't." Jules, again,agreed.

The paramedic slipped between the two women, replacing the dripping IV. He murmured a few words to Jules, urging her to let his patient rest –s he'd had a long and stressful day. Her breathing and heart rates had accelerated back into dangerous territory.

"I guess he wanted was to protect his friend. The men he served with." Mrs. Braddock sighed heavily. "I'm scared for Sam. Please. You've got to help him."

"I'll do everything I can." Jules promised. She stepped back, swinging back out of the ambulance into the overly bright scene outside. The flashes of the media bulbs was nearly blinding as she bent her head and scurried back towards the truck to relay the latest findings. Yes. She'd do everything she could. _But would it be enough?_

_AN: Love you forever and ever if you review. Also. How badass was Acceptable Risk. It blew me away. Totally shredded chunks of my story (hasn't the whole season been doing that really? With the paramedic love triangle and now Sam's family? But well worth it in my opinion. Because Acceptable Risk may be my favourite episode yet. A-mazing.  
_


	19. Choice

_AN: Hi! I told someone I had hoped to have this chapter up by Friday but between hating my guts and homecoming I've been massively tied up. Here it is, nonetheless, and I hope you enjoy!_

**...**

Sam tried to ignore the wash of guilt that lapped at him. He tried to brush off the memory of Jules astonished face as he'd stepped back. But it was frozen there – the shock and the horror. The way her mouth tensed with a flash of anger. The instinctual move she'd made forward to catch him. The hand she'd thrown up to grab him. To stop him.

The team was family. There was no doubt to that. He loved them and would gladly lay his life on the line for each and every one of them. They were their own unique unit. And he loved that. They had given him something that he'd longed for his whole life – acceptance.

But his military unit had given him something too and he loved them too – in their own way. They'd given him respect and loyalty. And he owed them that in return. He couldn't – wouldn't – turn his back on them. They needed him now. Zeb needed him now.

Returning to the kitchen Zeb hauled open the refrigerator door, shoving aside containers of low-fat yogurt and take-out-boxes to fish out two bottles of evian. He tossed one to a grateful Sam who cracked the plastic seal and drank deeply. The cool liquid was like honey to his dry throat. He pressed the bottle, still icy, to his heated forehead. The momentary relief was fantastic. Zeb sunk to his knees on the floor and Sam followed suit, slumping against the drawers. He let his head fall back, hitting against the hard cabinetry with a dull thunk. He was exhausted.

"What do we do?" Zeb's voice was dry and cracked. "We need to do something. He can't get away with this."

Sam just shook his head. "I don't know Zeb."

"There's only one way to end this. And I screwed it up." Zeb drummed long fingers against the sweaty thigh of his jeans.

"There's always another way." Sam responded instinctively. "We just have to find it."

"If you could lure the General here I might be able to pick him off from a distance." Zeb suggested. "It's been a while and my sniping skills were never as good as yours or Bear's but I could probably manage."

Sam shook his head vehemently. "They'll have told him already. You'd never get a shot off anyway."

Zeb shrugged. "Might."

"You wouldn't be alive to appreciate the results." Sam argued.

"Wouldn't matter much." Zeb grunted, taking another bitter swig from his bottle of now-lukewarm water. Liquid sloshed lazily in his belly, making him feel sluggish and sick. His heart ached, pounding a furious and bruising rhythm against his chest.

"You know that's not true." Sam retorted. He was right, Zeb thought. It would matter – to some. To his old teammates. To the newspapers who'd get to spin a pretty little story about a mentally broken soldier pushed to the breaking point and beyond. But it wouldn't matter to the person he needed most.

"What happened with Katie?" Sam asked.

Zeb gave a sullen shrug.

"Zeb." Was all Sam needed to say.

"I broke a promise I made to her." The words tumbled out, surprising even Zeb. He hadn't talked about it to anyone.

"You cheat?" Sam asked dubiously.

"No. I did something a lot worse." His voice was slow and measured. Each syllable so precisely spaced and clipped that he sounded almost like an metronome slowly clicking off beats.

"She still loves you." Sam told him gently.

"But she will never forgive me." Zeb answered. He climbed to his feet, using the cabinets to propel himself to his somewhat unsteady legs. He needed to move. He needed to stand. He strode to the window, shifting the curtains aside to survey the situation.

"Every TV station in the city is out there." He said numbly.

"Big story." Sam muttered half-heartedly.

"Zeb! It's perfect Zeb."

"What is?"

"We use them." He gesticulated towards the throbbing mob of suited correspondants beaming overly white teeth into the enormous jet-black video cameras with broadcast initials printed on the side.

"For what?"

"We expose it. The whole thing. Canadians would never stand for a general abusing power like that. They'd never support a back-door draft. Think about it. They'd lap up the headlines. Afghanistan vetran, heartbroken over discharge from military, about to lose it all, learns of monstrous plot to betray our brave men and women in uniform upon their return to Canada and goes above and beyond to protect his absent brothers and sisters in arms. He goes to confront the general at his barely-legal mistress's house but, instead of the general arriving it's his wife who's just learned of his affair. They love this Shakespearean tragedy stuff."

"Would it work?"

"We don't have any other options, Zeb. This is it." Sam insisted. "We tell them the truth. Once the public knows it'll be game over. They could never get away with treating our men and women like that. Dad's given us the rope and now we'll hang him with it."

Zeb hesitated. "You don't think the military would block publication?"

"They could try. But a story this juicy? I think any ambitious journalist would gladly defy my father for a chance at the fame and glory."

"Yeah." Zeb nodded slowly, turning the gun over in his hands. "Could work."

Sam swallowed hard. "I could sweeten the pot some. Tell them about the cover-up in Matt's death. It was kept classified because it was a JTF2 mission. General said that they couldn't let out details because it would jeopardize our operation in Afghanistan. But you know it was to protect the forces' reputation and save his own ass." He couldn't swallow over the knot of anxiety lodged in his throat.

"No." Zeb grunted. "I came here to help save the life you've got now. I'm not going to watch you destroy it. There'd be an inquest and you'd be vilified. People love to hate on general's sons. They're entitled assholes who get to skirt around laws – blah blah blah. Drag Matt's parents through all the pain of losing a son all over, suck the team back into that crap. No. We've got enough scandal."

Sam felt , not unashamedly, the rusty grip of pain and fear lessen. It hadn't been his fault – he'd been given the order. He couldn't have known – but he blamed himself and always had. Yet still, in the last year he'd been learning, slowly, to forgive. The wound of having lost Matt – of having shot Matt – was still raw around the edges. Having to rip it open again for the greasy press and the damning public to poke and prod at would make it bled anew, achey and exhausting. He was relieved that it wouldn't come to that.

"You got your cell still?" Zeb asked. Sam nodded, pulling his phone from his pocket and jamming the green power button until it hummed to life in his palm, the cheery melodic tune of the start-up sour to his ears.

"You got a preference, Sam-o?" Zeb angled closer, until they were sitting side by side on the kitchen floor. Sam scrolled through a brief list of contacts.

Sam scrolled his list of contacts – both work and personal – until he reached the H section.

"Hot Bitch Reporter?" Zeb read out over his shoulder. "Really Sam?"

"Sure. I think her real name is Vivian. She's bloody-thirsty and savage and damned proud of it. Would probably stick it to her own mother if it meant getting her big break. She dogs the teams on big cases, tries to pressure and fish and worm her way into more information. She tried to ply me with liquor and pry some information on the Simpson case last year. I think she works TCC. She's probably out there right now. She'd put it on the air, no problem."

Zeb nodded. "Okay then. Lets roll Sam – get 'er done." He grinned, slapping him on the back as the habitual phrase passed from his lips. It was their unit's way of saying goodbye. It was their way of saying good luck, stay safe, see you after, take care of each other. It was their way of saying everything is going to be okay. It was comforting. It was ritual.

Yeah, Sam thought, punching the dial button. Everything was going to be okay.

**...**

_Okay not the most exciting, but I might still have a few things up my sleeve._


	20. Ambitious

Vivian Snellgrove glanced down into her small bejeweled compact, mercilessly evaluating her features in the miniature mirror. She ruthlessly swiped gloss over her collagen-plumped lips and tossed her mane of gently waving auburn hair over her shoulder. The suit she wore was Armani, the price so high she'd lost heat in her apartment the month she'd bought it. But it looked gorgeous on camera when she'd debuted on the city-wide channel. So what, she had to wear her winter parka to bed? It was well worth the sense of satisfaction she got when she watched herself on the DVR recording of the late night news. It was the right balance of professional and feminine. Just high enough cut to be deemed demure, but fitted enough to reveal her ample chest and streamlined curves.

Sex sold. It was the truth. She was fully aware that a third of their male viewers tuned in solely to oogle her chest and her signature cupid's bow lips. It was the sad truth when your segments are aired at 1 o'clock in the morning that the vast majority of viewers are going to be insomniacs and perverts. Many of the other anchors at TCC she shared the late-night slots with were resigned to this decidedly unglamorous fate. But unlike many of her colleagues who accepted and embraced their dismal positions in the world of journalism, Vivian had ambitions. The first of which was to get the hell of Toronto City Central News and into something solid and real and important. Somewhere she could be a star and get the air time she rightfully deserved. And she'd gladly use any weapon necessary to battle her way to the benchmark on her road to success.

She slicked a hand down those solidly female curves now and shamelessly licked those bee-stung red lips. "But officer." She teased, stroking an arm down a uniformed chest. "I just want a better shot of the house. Just an itsy bitsy little bit of footage." She batted her doe-like eyes at him. She'd picked this one particularly – had pegged him as the weakest link in the chain guarding the perimeter of the scene. He was young, buzz-cut screaming of his recent graduation from the academy. And, when she rubbed against him strategically, his Adam's apple bobbled and his clean-shaven face blushed.

"I'm sorry ma'am." He said, voice stammering slightly_. What naivety,_ she thought. "No press are allowed near the scene."

She let her lips sulk in what she knew was a pretty pout – hell, she'd practiced it on men of all ages since the first delicate blossoms of puberty. "I promise that I won't get too close." She shifted even nearer. She tilted her head to the side, tossing back her hair. He could practically smell her perfume now, she imagined. She slid a hand through her silken locks and down her tan throat, lingering slightly on the skin just above her collar. He'd want her. She knew.

She could almost _see_ him give way.

"I'm sorry, we're going to need you to step back ma'am." Her visions of a closer shot – and the very long-shot dream of an interview with one of the primary officers – were crushed beneath the boot of the disturbingly efficient sergeant who stomped up to reinforce the persuadable rookie. The woman glared down her long, autocratic nose at Vivian and sneered. Viv's heart sank. Female cops. She damned well hated female cops. They could see through every trick she had. Every ace up her sleeve were useless against chick cops. Rolling her eyes she stormed back towards the cluster of journalists and cameramen taping along the east border of the police lines. It had the best view of the shiny black mobile command centre announcing presence of the the city's premier policing units' presence - the SRU. Now she was stuck getting pedestrian views like all the other nobody reporters. The cameraman grunted at her to hurry up and she snarled back.

Her blackberry rang. She tugged it out of her pocket and without breaking pace answered it.

"Vivian Snellgrove, TCC News." She answered automatically, her voice smoothing and deepening to the same tone she adopted on-camera.

"Vivian? It's Samuel Braddock." Vivian narrowed her eyes as she flipped through her mental filodex of names. Samuel Braddock. _Samuel Braddock_.

It clicked. Braddock. SRU officer she remembered her pulse kicking it up a notch. She'd tried to pry a statement out of him after the eco-terrorist attacks of last year. The police had lost one officer and her sources within the department said that that the deceased had been a member of Team One. She'd carefully evaluated the team profiles and deemed Sam the weakest link. He'd be the section of chain that snapped, with a little manipulation on her part. War-vet, son of a general, rumors of military scandal, newest male member to the squad. Reputation as a lady's man. He should have been prime for the picking.

She'd tracked Sam down a police bar where she'd desperately attempted to ply him with liquor. She was hoping for a generous soundbite. She'd gotten nothing because he'd brushed her of as one would an annoying gnat. It still stung a little, his brisk dismissal. The flash of condemnation in his eyes before he turned back to his solitary beer, ignoring her sympathetic words. It was embarrassing to remember the desperation with which she had flirted with him. She'd even hijacked his phone and added her own phone number to his contacts. She flinched. Should have gone with a little more subtlety she supposed. Live and learn.

"What can I do for you Samuel." She glanced towards the glossy black truck. Maybe he was on scene? Her heart rose with the sudden thought.

"You hear about the situation over in Vaughn?" He asked. Perhaps he was coming around, she thought, giddy hope bubbling up in her chest. She could use a contact in the SRU.

She tried to play it cool. "Yes. Actually I did." The camera man began to whine about air-time and footage but she shot him a murderous glare and held up a palm. He fell immediately silent. "What's going on? You're alright, aren't you?" She said, voice dripping with fraudulent concern.

"Whatever Vivian. Are you on scene or not?" Sam asked voice tinged with disgust.

"I am, as a matter of fact." She huffed out a breath.

"Good." Came his curt response. "I'm inside. With the subject."

Vivian fumbled with her mike pack in her hurry to record their conversation. She mentally cursed herself for not having engaged it immediately. "You're with the gunman?" She waited for his affirmative reply. "What's the situation inside?" She asked, unable to contain her rampant excitement.

"He wants to talk to the press. Wants to make a statement." Sam responded.

_Oh my sweet Jesus _Vivian thought. She reached over snatching her cameraman's phone from her open pocket and rapidly keying in a urgent message to her producer. She was about to strike gold. She knew it. Absolute gold.

"TCC would be more than happy to accommodate him." She assured him sweetly.

"I counted on as much. He wants to release a message in five minutes. Live. He'll call you – on this phone. You'll put through his audio with _no _audio-loop directly through to the news feed."

"Samuel." She schooled her voice to curtail the traces of whininess and curiosity. _Play it cool, Viv _she told herself. _Keep it calm. _"You're asking quite a lot. I'm going to need a little more information than that. You're asking me to put my neck on the line here, darling. I'm going to need a little preview Sam - a little taste of what's in store."

"No. You don't. He's got a secret here that will make your career, Vivian. So you call whoever it is you have to call and promise them the sun, the moon, the whole godamned solar system if you have to. Promise them the best ratings your channel has ever seen and a freaking Pulitzer if you need to. You're not going to want to miss this." The phone clicked as he uttered the last syllables, the dead tone beeping into her buzzing ear.

Her fingers immediately hit speed-dial for her producer's number. She scowled at her camera-guy even as the phone began to ring.

"Be useful and set up a damn shot, asshole. Get me some good light. I'm going to make us famous."

_AN: This chapter's a bit different, but I hope you guys enjoyed it. There'll be more team and more Sam next time, I promise! Anyway, thanks for reading._


	21. Just Me

_Hey guys - I apologize for the delay. I'm busting through my final year as a college senior and the work can be a little overwhelming. And when I'm not - I have to say that it's the final year all my friends' and I will be together. We're parting after this year for a million different cities across the globe. And I wanted to spend as much time with the most important people in my life as possible. I love them to death. Anyway - that's the explanation. Thank you for the lovely reviews you have all left me - they really do motivate me. I love hearing back from you guys._

_I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season, that the new year treats you well and that you enjoy this chapter. I've got the next penned out and I'm working on the editing (... beta anyone?). It should be up shortly - so not another 3 month delay for sure!_

**...**

"Jules." Sarges' voice filled her communication piece.

"Yes Sarge?" She responded, striding back towards the mobile command unit.

"Smithson's wife just arrived on the scene. I'm having her brought to the truck. I think you should be here. You were at the home she shared with Anthony. You saw them. The life they made together. You've got a better picture of who they are." Sarge continued.

"On my way." She said, picking up her pace until she was jogging back to the black van. She yanked open the door and quickly mounted the step, pulling the sturdy door shut behind her. Taking a deep breath to calm herself she turned to survey Katie.

The woman who sat beside Sarge was beautiful. There was no other word to describe her. That was the first thing Jules noticed. She was tall and thin, her endlessly long legs showcased in a skinny black skirt. Her eyes were a golden brown, the colour of whiskey, smooth and rich, edged with thick lashes. Her cheekbones were high, curving down to perfect cupids-bow lips. Her hair, a fall of raven black, fell across her shoulders, framing her exotic features.

Jules had never been terribly comfortable with women. She'd had brothers, had worked alongside males her entire life. Tall, smart, beautiful, confidently female; Katie was the kind of she had resented and envied in her adolescent years and avoided as an adult.

But looking past that Jules saw shock and grief. The remorse and the guilt. She was a scared woman who needed her help, Jules reminded herself, stepping forward.

"Jules Callaghan" She said by way on introduction, noting with curiosity the way the other woman's eyes widened at the name, her mouth forming a small _oh _of surprise.

"I don't understand what's going on. The police came to my work today saying Tony was in trouble and that I should come. I don't know why he's doing this. Tony … Tony's a good man." Katie said. "I just can't see him doing the things you're saying. He wouldn't intentionally hurt somebody. He wouldn't. I know him. Please don't shoot him. Don't hurt him." She pleaded. Her hand, resting over her still-flat stomach in an innate sign of maternal protection. Long fingers, one marred by the pale outline of where a ring used to lie, were interlocked over her child.

"We're trying not to. We're trying to understand so we can help him." Greg reassured her, patting her knee paternally.

"He's been different since coming back. He wouldn't tell me anything. He couldn't sleep at night. Because of the nightmares. He'd always wake up screaming. He'd dream of losing his teammates. Of having to shoot children. Of ambushes. He started drinking. I couldn't talk to him anymore. He wouldn't take his medication. He stopped going to therapy. So I left. I didn't know what else to do. I wish I'd stayed. I could have helped him." Katie said, fresh tears beginning to form.

"It's okay. This isn't your fault." Jules insisted, stepping forward.

"I don't know why he'd take Sam hostage. He's one of his best friends. He didn't see much of him once Sam left the army for the military. But Tony didn't resent him for it. He understood. And he was glad. Because it meant that Sam would get to start a life away from his father. His father's a powerful man. Sam would finally get to escape his shadow. Tony and Sam are friends. I don't know why he'd do this." Katie said again, voice shaking.

"Were you aware that he was forcibly discharged from the military this month?" Jules' asked.

Katie dragged a shaky hand through her hair. "No. I can't… He must feel like he's lost everything."

"Does Anthony have any other family?" Greg prodded.

"No. It's just me – me and the baby. His mother abandoned him as a child. He doesn't know his father. That's how we met. We were in fostercare together. We got married young and he joined the military so we could afford my tuition; we only ever had each other."

"Does he know you're pregnant?" Jules asked gently.

Katie sucked in a deep breath. "No. I didn't tell him. I was going to. I was so excited when I found out. I took three tests. I was thrilled. We'd wanted this for so long. We'd always put it off though. Because I was in school or because he had another tour coming up. I had it all planned out in my head. I even had this stupid little speech prepared. But when he came home he was so angry. He wouldn't tell me what it was about. He poured himself a drink. It wasn't even noon. I lost it. My father was an alcoholic. He drank himself to death when I was 12. I watched him kill himself with vodka and rum and tequila. When we got married Tony promised me he'd never do that to me."

Her voice cracked, hand pressing painfully against her stomach. It pitched nauseatingly, like a raft in a storm. The memory hurt. The thought of losing Tony forever was somehow even worse.

"I was so angry I yanked the bottle out of his hands and smashed it on the ground. He raised his fist like he was going to hit me. He didn't – we were both so stunned, I think. Neither of us moved or said anything. He'd never done anything like that before. He turned around and walked out the front door. He was ashamed, I think. He felt guilty and angry with himself. But I couldn't take it anymore. I packed up a few of my things and left. I wrote him a note telling him I couldn't do it anymore. That I loved him and I said goodbye. I never told him about the baby."

The tears were coming faster now.

"Maybe if I'd told him he wouldn't have done this." She curled over, rocking herself, arms wrapped around herself like they were the only thing keeping her together at this point. Her voice was brittle, mouth pressed in a firm, paper thin line.

"Do you still love him?" Jules asked. Greg shot her a warning look over Katies' head.

"Yes. Of course. I could never stop loving him. As much as I wanted to." Katie admitted, angrily pushing away the tears. She needed to be strong. To be smart.

"We're doing everything we can to bring him back safely. Will you help us? If we need you? Can you help us keep Anthony safe?" Jules asked, crouching before Katie so that they were eye to eye. Woman to woman.

"Yes." Her response was immediate. "Yes."

"Good. We've got work to do, Sarge." Jules said, pushing to her feet.


	22. Goodbye is the Hardest Word

_AN: Happy New Year! I'm ringing it in with another chapter. Lots of love. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for the offers to beta. I just couldn't wait to get this up though. I'm thinking that this story is getting near it's close. :( Sad but inevitable. Just a few miles more in this ride._

_EDITED: To add more breaks in quotations because this chapter suffered from textblockconstipation.  
_

_**...**  
_

"Are we really going to let this happen?" Spike asked, shooting the sergeant a look over his shoulder as he keyed in a simple command which would give them access to Sam's phone.

Greg considered his options. "If we don't. I can't guarantee that Sam will make it out safely. This kid is military trained. He's not some junkie or a kid waving a gun. This is a man who has the skillset to survive guerilla warfare. We can't risk taking him down. We need him to come out. Giving him what he wants may be the safest way." He finally said.

Spike's brow furrowed. He felt the trickle of a bead of sweat slipping down the nape of his neck. He licked his lips nervously, his throat suddenly parched. They couldn't screw up, he told himself. For Sam. They had to keep it calm and keep it together.

Sarge spoke quickly and quietly into his earpiece, giving the team their orders. "Wordy, Leah – you cover the window entry. I want you to move fast. If it goes south I need you in there as quickly as possible. Jules, Ed. Rear entry. You hear gunshots – do not wait for my signal, get in there. I'm giving you the okay for lethal if he threatens Sam or things escalate. We don't want to have to do this, but if it comes down to him or Sam, you know the answer team."

"Sarge, Sam's phone is ringing the reporter again. Patch it in?" He asked.

"Put 'em through. Route audio to the team."

**...**

Zeb held the phone in his quaking hand, listening to the phone redial the reporters number. It barely rang once before the woman – Vivian – answered, her voice oddly bright. Zeb always wondered why newscasters spoke like they did. That phony tone, overly pronounced syllables and dramatic phrasing all seemed … too plastic. Too fake.

"This is Vivian Snellgrove with TCC News. Is it true that you've taken a member of Toronto's elite policing unit, the Strategic Response Unit, and an unnamed civilian hostage inside the residence?" Her voice crackled over the phone, overly eager and bright with excitement.

Zeb shot an amused glance over at Sam. She sounded just like he'd described her. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Nah. I let the civilian go actually. Just me and the copper now." He said dryly.

"Can you tell me a little more about the situation inside right now? Can you tell the viewers a little more about yourself? What drove you to commit such an act? What do you want now?"

Zeb took a deep breath, letting his head fall back as he spoke. "My name is Anthony Smithson formerly of the Joint Task Force 2, 4th Division. I joined the military at aged 18, straight of high school. I served in Afghanistan on four tours. And I came here today to kill General Henry Braddock."

There was a stunned silence on the other side of the phone.

"I was driven to this because I wanted to protect the men and women I served with." Zeb sucked in a deep breath before continuing.

"This war is unlike any before it. There is no visible enemy. There is nothing but fear and death and pain to everyone involved. It is a war that will never end. And a war that veterans will no longer be able to escape. Because General Braddock has already drafted a change to the military protocol. Men who have served our country, who have fought long, hard years, will be trapped by a back-door draft he's crafted. He's betrayed us."

"That is quite the accusation." Vivian managed to say, her voice dropping from that falsetto in her surprise.

"What he's doing is wrong. But he doesn't care. Because they're just numbers to him. But they're not numbers to me. They're all I have. So I've got to stand up for them before it's too late." Zeb's voice was gravelly - from the searing heat of the kitchen, and from the fiery anger that consumed him.

"I came here to kill him. I followed his car here from the base today. To this is the house he shares with his mistress. Who, for the record, is 23 years old. Figure that one out. But I made a mistake. Because it wasn't General Braddock that I found in the house. It was his wife who'd come to confront him about his lecherous affair." He sneered.

"What happened then, Anthony." Vivian prodded, attempting to keep pace.

"I panicked. She ran and must have called ..." Zeb broke off, looking across the counter at Sam. His brown knitted. "She called the police. One unarmed officer entered the house and I took them both hostage. "

"Sources indicate that it's the General's son, SRU officer Samuel Braddock – can you comment?" Vivian asked. Zeb's brow snapped into a frown and he began to snarl out an answer when Sam shook his head, reaching over to cover the speaker so their voices wouldn't carry.

"I don't need you to protect me." Sam whispered.

"I know. But I'm going to anyway." Zeb grinned, shrugging.

"No. The man in front of me is more honorable than any son of General Braddock's could be." Zeb shot him a sly smirk. "When I realized that I would never be able to get to General Braddock now, I decided the only other way to stop him was to tell the media. Tell everybody. And let them decide if they will allow this general to stab our Canadian troops in the back."

"You're saying that the general has discovered a loop-hole through which he can stop-loss returning soldiers? A way to trap them into service?" Vivian asked, nearly breathless with giddy excitement.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." Zeb remarked.

"We have reports that you have been suffering from PTSD. Are they correct?"

"Probably. You see things over there – they ask you to do things – that you'll never forget and that you'll probably never be able to forgive yourself for. But even so that doesn't mean I'm crazy or that I'm wrong."

"We hear that you were discharged from the army. This isn't a vendetta against the officer for having you kicked off your team?"

"No. I am angry about that. I gave the military my life. I lost almost everything else. But I never lost my friends. And they're the reason I'm here now. I'm here to protect them. This life is hard. And when you sign up you dedicate your life to them – for a while at least."

He rubbed a shaking hand over his close-shorn hair. _Almost over _he told himself. _Almost done._

"You miss out a lot. You miss birthdays and anniversaries. Births. Deaths. You miss your kids growing up. And at some point you want to leave. At some point it becomes too much to handle. They've misled the men and women who joined our military. They've lied to them. And they're trapping them. It's wrong." Zeb explained calmly.

"I called you now because I wanted the people of Canada to know. To let them decide if they will tolerate this. Because I wouldn't. I wouldn't stand by and let them do that. I'm laying this before the people of Canada to let them decide." He said.

He pressed the disconnect button and let the phone drop to the floor. "I guess we'll let them decide." He repeated, wearily.

**...**

"He kept Sam out of it. He never said anything about the General's plan to force him back into the military. Nothing of the conspiracy to cover-up the friendly fire."

"He's protecting him." Greg said. "He's not going to hurt Sam. He's like a brother. He'd do anything to protect him. Team get ready to move in."

**...**

"You should go now." Zeb told Sam. He felt like he was floating. At peace. He'd said what he needed to say. He no longer felt that awful weight pressing down on him, that awful load. A burden released.

"We should go together." Sam said, raising to his feet. He held down a hand to Zeb to help pull him to his feet.

"I can't do that. I'm sorry Sam." Zeb said. He sat as he was. He didn't reach out and clasp Sam's. He didn't rise to his feet. He just sat, still as the ice on a frozen lake, and twice as pale.

"For what? It's not your fault, Zeb." Sam said, his heart beginning to thrum faster in his chest.

Zeb squeezed the gun tighter in his hand. He heard the back door give a massive heave as the Ed and Jules pushed through it. The blinds were yanked aside as two bodies squeezed through into the small room. Smoke from the flashbangs shot, like grey streamers, through the air coating the room in a fine mist. And the blaring of the concussive grenades resonated painfully in his head.

"Goodbye Sam." He heard Zeb say as the blast's echoes faded from his ears and he saw, through a break in that grey smoke, his friend raising the cocked gun to his temple. Sam felt his heart freeze. "Tell the others I say goodbye."

Sam lurched forward.

"No!"


	23. I Carry Your Heart With Me

_AN: Thanks, everyone, for your amazing words and reviews. I appreciate each and every one of them. I really do. They make my day.  
_

_DJ - Thank you so very much for your wonderful words. Your reviews are always lovely to read and I never have any way of saying that I appreciate them because you're anonymous! That is a really beautiful compliment - I'm just glad that you're enjoying the journey. _

_And thank you to lazerwolf314 who kindly beta'd this for me (and discovered first hand, my overuse of the comma and underuse of the word 'and'). You're fabulous!_

**...**

"You can't do this Zeb." Sam lurched forward desperately trying to wrench the gun from his friends' shaking hands, but before he could take the single step it would have taken to cross the short distance, arms were locked around him yanking him back. His team, he realized, in some distant part of his brain.

"Don't!" He yelled, straining for release. He had to do something. He heard the person behind him grunt in pain as he plowed an elbow into their gut.

"I'm so sorry Sam. I'm sorry. But I'm done. I did what I came here to do. There isn't anything left to say." Zeb's hand was shaking – he tried to tighten his grip but the gun was too slippery and his muscles too weak.

"We'll figure something out, buddy. My mother won't press charges. We'll tell the judge you've got PTSD. You're sleep deprived. We'll get you in a program. There won't be any jail."

"Sam, my _life _is a jail."

"It doesn't have to be." Sam replied desperately.

"We've got to do something." Ed muttered to Jules. His mind raced with possibilities. He glanced between the kid, gun pressed shakily to his temple, and Sam, struggling to break free of Wordy and Leah's iron grip. He didn't lower his gun – Ed knew how quickly people could turn on the police. He knew how many people chose suicide by cop. He just couldn't take the chance. His gun remained trained on Zeb, finger braced against the metal trigger.

"Sarge" Jules whispered into her headphones. "Sarge. Put his wife on."

"Not sure that's a good idea, Jules." Greg warned her.

"It's what we've got. Let her talk him down. She still loves him. He still loves her. She can help him."

Greg sighed. He gave himself a moment to consider – to weigh the chances. Sometimes, you just have to roll the dice and let them fall where they may.

"Okay." He said. Quickly, he turned to Katie. She sat, her face ashen and lower lip trembling, hands laced protectively over her stomach.

"I'm sorry Katie. We've got some bad news." Greg started. Katie's face blanched impossibly more, her cheeks a ghostly white.

"What's wrong?" She anxiously asked, leaning in. She absently pressed a hand to her chest, above her pounding heart. "Is Tony okay? What's going on?"

"He's said goodbye to Sam and he's turned the gun on himself. Katie do you want him to come out safely?"

"Of course. Yes, of course I do." Was her immediate reply.

"Good." It was exactly the answer he'd been hoping for. "I know this might be difficult but we'd like you to speak to him. I think it might calm him - to hear your voice and to know that you're here. It might help him."

"What do I say?" Katie asked.

"Tell him how you feel. Tell him you love him. Try to reassure him. Let him know he's not alone. That things will get better and he can move past this. You don't want him to hurt himself. I'm going to be right here helping you do this."

"Should I tell him about … about the …." She trailed off.

"If you want to." Greg said simply. He passed her the mike, switching the monitors to patch the team's audio into the van's speakers. "Just say what's in your heart."

She gripped the mike in white-knuckled hands before lifting it to her mouth .

Spike gave a nod as he routed the audio through the discarded cell phone, remotely switching it to speaker. "Tony?"

The voice was faint. Almost like a dream.

A beautiful dream. One where they'd never left their hometown. Where he'd never joined the military and she'd never gone off to school. Where he'd never killed, not for money or in self defense, for country or his brothers at arms. One where he'd never drank, he'd never raised his fists against her. One where they'd stayed the same happy teenagers they'd been when they'd fallen in love.

"Tony." This time it called to him, louder.

Zeb's gaze skittered around the kitchen, desperately seeking the source. God. He was going mad. He had to be going mad. He was hearing voices.

The cellphone. It had to be. He searched for it, shaking hand reaching out tentatively towards it once he spotted it.

"Katie?" His voice grated in his throat. "… That you?"

"Yeah, baby. Yeah, it's me. I'm here." He closed his eyes at the familiar tone, sweet on his buzzing ears. Emotions ripped through him like a violent summer storm.

"Katie. You shouldn't be here." He wanted her as far away from his misery as possible. And while his heart leapt, unbidden, with joy at the sound of her voice, it also trobbed knowing she was somewhere close. She'd hear the fatal sound of the gunshot. See the covered body rolled on stretches from the house. And he couldn't protect her from that. He rapped the gun, hard, against his head in frustration, trying to clear it enough to think.

"I had to be here, Tony. They told me you were in trouble."

"I just want this to be over." He whispered brokenly.

"I know you do. So come out." Her voice cracked as she pleaded with him. He didn't want to cause her any more pain.

"It's all fucked up" He murmured.

"No. No it's not. You can get through this and I'll help you. We'll be fine. Please - just put down the gun. Put it down on the floor and walk away." She begged.

"I can't."

"Do it for me."

He hesitated. God. He'd do anything for her.

"Do it for our baby."

His heart, seconds ago pounding in his chest, came to a shuddering halt. "You're pregnant?" He whispered.

"Yes. Yes I am - and I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was angry and confused. I didn't know how to."

"You… you're having a baby."

"We're having a baby. It's a boy. I had the ultrasound three days ago. He's due in November. The 4th. Our son deserves a father."

"Our son deserves better than me." Zeb said, letting his head fall back, struggling to reign in his tears. His son. Good god. His _son. _ He deserved a mother and father who loved him. Who'd take care of him. Teach him right from wrong. Who'd shelter and nourish him. How long had they both wanted children? Now it seemed too late. "He deserves better." He repeated.

"Don't say that. You have a chance to be the father neither of us had. You have that chance. Just walk away. You can be there for him – when he's growing up. You have that chance." She repeated. "So take it. Put the gun down."

He wanted to.

"Do you remember what you promised me on our wedding day. That neither of us would be alone again? I'm sorry for leaving you alone, Tony. You needed me. I didn't know how to help you. I wanted to but I was scared and angry. I couldn't see that you were hurting too. Don't turn away now. Don't leave me alone. I need you."

He remembered the day vividly. Standing in front of that white churchhouse on that steamy Calgary day, the day fading behind her, he'd promised her that they'd always have each other. He remember the feel of her satin dress against his hand, the heat of her skin beneath it. The way the dusky air played on her dark hair, waved around her face. The smile in her honeyed eyes – the hope and love.

He couldn't hold back anymore. The tears swelled over.

"Do you remember our vows?" She asked.

He couldn't respond – he didn't have the power to.

"I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling. I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet. I want no world, for, beautiful, you are my world, my true. And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you. Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart." Her voice carried away softly, hanging in the air.

He struggled, gun quaking. One second. Two. Three. Five. Ten. A full minute ticked by in painful, endless, silence.

"I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart." He finished, voice cracking as the words passed his lips.

He set the gun on the floor, the metal clicking softly against the linoleum, and raised his hands behind his head in surrender.

...

_AN: I wish I could take credit for the vows. I really do. But that genius belongs to E.E Cummings. It's a poem called __"I Carry Your Heart With Me" and it is, bar none, my favourite poem in the universe. E E Cummings was a god among men._


	24. Don't Be Sorry

_Hi guys! First off - thanks to everyone who read or reviewed - you guys are fantastic. Secondly - no spoilers but last night's episode was freaking ammmmmmmmmazing. They just keep making it harder and harder to pick a favourite episode. This is a relatively quick chapter. Next one will be up by the end of the week, I hope. It's just being beta'd for me by the wonderful lazerwolf314. Originally this chapter didn't exist but after I penned out the next one I realized I really wanted to have Zeb and Katie reunited. And I wanted to give Sam a chance to settle things with Zeb. So ... this was spawned into existence.  
_

_Anyway. I hope you enjoy - drop me a comment._

The sharp stab of relief was almost instant and painful. The sound of the gun hitting the linoleum sound was the most beautiful sound that he had ever heard – purer than churchbells chiming on a lazy Sunday, more gratifying than a heated guitar solo, more electrifying than the sound of the buzzer as the overtime puck sails into the net.

Sam grabbed the edge of the counter, feeling his knees buckle with exhaustion and relief. Arms reached out to steady him.

"M'okay. I'm okay." He repeated. "I'm okay."

"Somebody turn off the damned oven." Ed barked at his team, frozen like some kind of tragic tableau. Spike sprang into action, scrambling towards the inferno of heat, slamming the door open and jabbing the power switch until the pumping furnace dulled to a hum and then fell silent altogether.

Sam stepped forward on uncertain legs. "Let me see him. I need to talk to him."

Leah, who had jumped forward to secure the subject, hesitantly retreated a pace.

"Zeb." He said, dropping heavily to his knees alongside his friend.

"I'm sorry this all had to happen, Sammy." His friend said, locking his arms around Sam in a fierce, bone-crushing hug.

"Don't be. Don't you be sorry." He protested. "We'll get you help. We'll get you through this. I promise you. You're going to be okay."

"So are you." Zeb whispered, gruffly. Sam felt arms wrap around him, pulling him away. He didn't struggle or resist. He lurched, slightly, as he gained his feet, balance wavering.

Ed slipped the cuffs around Zeb's wrists, securing his arms behind his back. Together with Wordy, he carefully hauled him to his feet.

"I'm sorry, kid. Formality. We're going to take you outside. Get you seen by a paramedic. You're going to be okay." Sam heard Ed say, assuringly, to Zeb. Sam thanked him, mentally, for being a compassionate leader – for his gentleness in handling his friend. Zeb had been through enough today.

"You had us worried there." Wordy said, clapping Sam on the back in a sign of brotherly support. "Had us freaked out, Samtastic. Never, ever do that again." He looped an arm around his shoulders, ruffling his hair affectionately.

Sam lifted his head, meaning to give some quick and witty reply. But he found his throat too dry. He'd never been terribly good with words. He could never really find the right ones. There was too much to that needed to be said.

He glanced around the small team, gathered in the hellishly hot kitchen. These people – this unit – they were as close to family as he'd had in a long time. They'd gone to all means to help him. They'd fought for him. They'd been scared for him. They'd supported him. And they had trusted him. They were loyal to the core. His brothers and sisters by choice, if not by blood.

"Thank you." He knew it wasn't adequate. It wouldn't be enough.

But it was a start.

His eyes locked on Jules'. She stood, ashen faced, in the doorway, her gun carefully lowered, her arm braced against the door jamb. Her expression wiped blank, unreadable to even him. Hand quaking she shoved back her bangs from her forehead, rubbing her palms over her weary face. She pulled in a deep breath, sucking in the air she'd forgotten to breathe during the brief standoff. It was like a boulder had been lifted off her chest.

Sam was safe.

She opened her mouth as if to say something but instead, just nodded and turning on her heel promptly fled. The door clanged shut in the resounding silence.

Sam felt the hope rising in him ebb, and the rush of shame and guilt rush in to fill the needy void. He forced himself not to give in to the incredibly urge to slump his shoulders and sink to the ground for a rest. There'd be plenty of time for that later, he told himself. Plenty of time.

"Don't worry." Spike said, stepping forward to take Sam by the elbow. He was grateful for the support – his legs felt rubbery. Must have been the dehydration, he thought numbly. "She was just really concerned. We thought we lost you for a couple minutes there. You scared her."

"I bet." He said dryly. He'd scared himself.

"She took on the general. Tore a strip off him. She told him he was a spineless son of a bitch. She said you must have gotten your bravery from your mother because he was a coward." Spike blathered, taking each step slowly.

Sam didn't know what to say, so he pressed his lips together in a hard line and concentrated on putting one shaky foot in front of the other. Now that the adrenaline had subsided the fatigue was almost unbearable. His muscles screamed with every move.

"Wish I could have seen it. You know she gets when she's on a rampage." Spike sputtered.

He'd have liked to have seen it himself, Jules taking on the big bad General Bad-Ass.

"She'll come around. She just doesn't know what do to with the energy yet."

He could only hope so.

When he stepped outside into the cool spring air, he shivered. The wind scraped against his skin, freezing cold against his heated body. It burned like a thousand pinpricks catching the sweat-dampened hair at the base of his neck, chilling him to the bone. He cringed.

"Tony?"

The voice was so small and tentative. But it was Katie's. Sam glanced up as Ed nodded his assent and the officer holding her back stepped back a pace. She stumbled towards Zeb.

"Oh god Tony." Katie's voice finally cracked, sobbing as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She laid her head against his chest, burying her face in his neck. Her tears mixed with his own as he bowed his head to press a kiss to her forehead. They rocked together for a moment, comforting. The way the stood, entwined, as the sun dipped low behind them reminded Sam of their wedding and his stomach gave a sick and nauseating churn.

"We're going to be okay. The three of us. We're going to be okay." She smiled, the tears still streaming.

Sam wished he could say the same about himself.


	25. My Mother's Son

_Another thanks to lazerwolf314 for doing me a **big **favour and beta'ing this for me and to all of your for reviewing. As you can probably sense, the story's winding down now - the road's a'coming to an end my dear friends. I can only hope that you'll enjoy the last few chapters and be satisfied with where it all goes._

The sun set on that quiet street in Vaughan, glinting off the puddles lining the narrow lane. The brick houses, edged by hedges and flowerbeds, took on a rosy warmth in the dying light of day. It seemed all so … ordinary. So normal. So boring.

Sam wondered if life on this street would ever be the same again. If people would forget about what happened today and move on with their lives. Soccer practices and business lunches. Births, marriages, divorces and affairs. Life didn't stop for anything, he supposed. If the SRU had taught him anything, it was that. No matter how catastrophic something might seem, life just kept marching by.

He shivered, the frigid breath of wind slipping through the thin blanket the paramedic had wrapped around his shoulders. After the intense heat of the kitchen, the chilly spring air felt all the more freezing. He licked parched lips and drank deeply from the hydration pack they'd handed him.

He watched as the ambulance carrying Zeb parted slowly through the thinning mob of reporters, and journalists. He'd be kept in a hospital overnight – evaluated in the morning. Sam imagined that the judge, considering his sleep deprivation, his depression and his PTSD, would be lenient. With any luck, he wouldn't serve any hard time and, Sam prayed, he'd get the help he desperately needed and justly deserved.

"Sammy." He heard his mother call his name. He heard the fast footsteps as she ran towards him. And then hesitantly stopped, only feet away. Her eyes were watery, lip warbling in a tell-tale sign of anxiety. And her fingers were clenched together, white as fallen snow.

"Sammy." Her voice was rougher now – broken.

He held out his arms.

She rushed forward, rocketing into them. He squeezed her tight to his chest. She ran her hands over his face, his shoulders – searching for injuries. She needed the solidity, Sam realized. She needed to be sure he was okay.

"I'm good Mom." He said, taking her hands in his own. "Don't worry. I'm okay."

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "My baby boy." She was crying now, tears rushing down her face. She didn't bother to wipe them away. "I was so worried about you."

"I know. You had me pretty worried myself." He said, tucking her back into his arms, resting his chin on her forehead. Good god. What a day.

"I thought I'd lost you. When the gun went off." His mother murmured against his shoulder. Sam reminded himself that she'd already lost one child. She shouldn't have to lose another. "I couldn't help it. You scared me half to death, Samuel." She scolded. He grinned at the use of his full name. It was something she'd only rarely called him. And not, like other parents, when he was in trouble, but rather, when he was forgiven.

"We're both okay." He reassured her. "I'm sorry about Dad." He offered bitterly, feeling the hatred bubble up in his throat.

"I'm not." She replied tersely. "I put up with him for years. I told myself it was for you. So that you'd have a real, traditional family. Especially after we lost Sarah. Now I realize that it probably wasn't what you wanted and it wasn't what was best for you. But it was easy. I should have known. I should have seen what he was doing."

"Don't." Sam protested. "You can't blame yourself Mom.

"I should have been a better mother to you. I should have protected you from him." His mother's eyes, the same shade of blue-green as his own, were filled with remorse and guilt.

"No. Mom, no." He said, shaking her shoulders lightly. "You were the best mother I could have asked for. Do you think I didn't know who made sure there I got the hockey skates I wanted for Christmas when I was 7, instead of the set of atlases and chess set I'm sure Dad wanted to give me?" He asked.

"Do you think I don't remember who held my head up through my first hangover? Who looked at all my report cards and told me how proud you were no matter how much I struggled in French or English Literature? You think I don't remember who took care of me every time I was sick? When I came home from Afghanistan after we lost Mattie? Do you think I don't know that it was you who forced Dad to pull those strings to get me back into the Police – onto the SRU? You've given me everything, Mom. You've made me everything I am today."

She rested her head on his shoulder a moment longer. She simply relishing holding her baby boy. At one time it had been her that had held him, late at night, as he fussed over a bottle. It had been her who'd cradled him in her arms, that new life, and comforted him - who'd pledged to protect him from the evils of the world. And instead, today, he'd done that for her.

"I'm proud of what you did today. You are the best man I've ever known." She smiled through the tears, stepping back. "I have to give them my statement now. I asked to see you first, but I told your Sergeant I'd give my full co-operation."

He let his eyes roam the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Jules. He needed to see her – to hear her voice. Even if it was to hear her chastise him for making a stupid decision. He just needed her. He hoped his survey was casual. But glancing down at his mother he realized he'd have no such luck.

A mothers' eyes see all.

"I like her. She's strong and loyal. She's not what I would have imagined for you – probably not what I'd have picked either. But she suits you better than any other woman could, Sammy. And, don't go getting big-headed about this, but I think she loves you, kid. Don't screw this up.

"Probably already did." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

Jules' emerged from the bowels of the truck, at that moment, scowling. At seeing Sam, her expression froze. And in that moment before she could recompose herself, Barbara saw something that gave her hope. She saw, in that moment, need. She saw admiration. She saw pride and worry. And she saw love.

"I wouldn't be so sure, Sam." His mother chuckled, patting his hand gently. "Sometimes women will surprise you."


	26. Turn Your Back

_Hey guys - sorry it's a bit late and kinda short. I meant to be much earlier but - school, you know? It gets away from me at the best of times. And I've been applying to (horrified gasp) grad schools. Yeah. It's been rather traumatic. Let us not speak of such matters. _

_This may or may not be what you were hoping for with Sam and the General... I can only hope that you enjoy it.  
_

_**...**  
_

Sam watched as his mother climbed into the back of a black and white cruiser. She ducked her head to avoid rapping it on the metal frame, the door closed behind her with a succinct and efficient click. She was headed downtown to Police Headquarters to give her statement, he knew. She was stronger than even he had imagined. After the horrific events of the day, she was still trying to stand beside him.

Glancing to make sure the paramedic was preoccupied, he shifted his weight, swinging his legs across the stretcher until they dangled above the ground. He gently lowered himself to his feet and, finding them fairly stable beneath him, he carefully stood. Untangling the IV lines, he pulled them off, leaving them carefully draped over the empty cot.

He needed to find Jules.

He needed to apologize.

He'd taken no more than two slow steps when he heard the angry burst of footsteps behind him. He didn't have to turn to know how it was. He recognized the heavy tread, the furious panting of breath, as his enraged father. As a kid, when his father had come home, bitterly angry, he'd storm through the house, boots pounding against the hardwood floors. The funny thing was it was no different now, over 20 years later.

"Samuel." He heard his name grunted.

He hesitated a moment. It was ingrained – he'd been conditioned to listen. To obey.

_Fuck it_. He thought. He had better things to do. He just wanted to find Jules. He kept his back to his father and took another slow step forward.

"Samuel Arthur William Braddock." His father's voice rose, resounding with barely contained fury. "What have you done?"

"Gee Dad, Nice to see you too."

"You will _not _speak to me that way, Samuel. You will address me with respect." His father demanded.

"Why" Sam barked out a bitter laugh. "What have you done to deserve it? Blame me my entire life for an accident I couldn't stop? Cheat on my mother with a girl barely old enough to brush her own goddamned teeth? Try to use my friends to force me back into the military? What have you _ever _done that would earn my respect."

"Control yourself, Samuel. You are going to arrange a television interview where you will recant the statement given today by your _friend_. You will state that he is delusional and that he is seeking psychiatric help for his clear mental defect. Your team allowed him to air that disgusting segment because you believed it was the most viable way to protect him and the hostage." His father clenched his jaw, hissed the words through his teeth.

"No. Actually. I won't. Because that's not true. We're done here." Sam said, turning away from his father.

The general reached out, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him. "You will _look _at me when I address you, Samuel."

"Take your hands off me." His voice was ice-cold. His father's hands fell limply to his sides.

"I did it for you." His father growled.

"For me? Do you honestly believe that? You drafted a law that would enable you to renew their contracts without informing them for _me_?" Sam laughed bitterly.

"You're throwing your life away, puttering at some entry-level position on some police squad!"

"That would be my choice, now wouldn't it? I'm not throwing my life away. You think that because you can't see beyond the shiny metals they hang on your lapel, or the stripes on your sleeve. You can't see that there is a whole lot more to life. You know what, yeah, it's less glamourous. And yeah, the hours suck. But I'm damned good at what I do. I save lives. It makes me happy."

"That's not the point, Samuel." His father argued.

"What is the point, father? What the hell is the point? Do you want me back to cement your legacy? Do you think that having a son in the forces would bolster your career? Give that competitive edge?" Sam rubbed a hand against his forehead. He could feel the headache mounting. God. Would today never fucking end?

"You want me to give up a life I've worked damned hard to build to go back to Afghanistan? You tell me, Dad. What the hell is the point?" He asked wearily.

"The point is family! The point is loyalty and obedience. You are supposed to do as I tell you. You are supposed to listen to your father. You've turned your back on your family, Samuel."

"No. I turned my back on you." He said, stepping back. Ed and Greg had stepped up to flank him. Over his father's shoulders he saw the team encircling the general. Spike gave him a solemn nod of solidarity.

Sam's heart beat began to race. Yes. This what was the team was truly about. Loyalty and love, acceptance and forgiveness. His team had given him something he hadn't always known he'd wanted, but had always desperately needed. Family.

"We were never a family. You saw to that. You made that decision. Just like you made the decision to legalize a backdoor draft. You decided to stab your men and women in the back – you sold them out – for what? The chance to control me? That's pathetic. You're playing god with their lives. You have no right. None."

His father seemed to struggle with words. "You are going to put this right."

"Zeb already did. Why can a man at his lowest – who's been stripped of everything – see that what you were doing was wrong, and yet you're completely oblivious? Tell me, _father_, how does that work?" He asked sarcastically.

"This doesn't change anything."

"You can't honestly think that plan will go through quietly - not now that everyone knows about it." Sam scoffed.

"You'll do as I say." His father threatened his voice dropping barely low enough for Sam to hear.

"I rather doubt that." Ed crossed his arms, rocking back on his heels. His grin, rather than friendly, was menacing. "Officers," He motioned to a pair of policemen monitoring the police-tapes. "Would you be so kind as to escort General Braddock back the perimeter? He's trespassing onto a police scene and contaminating my personal space." His voice dripped with disdain.

The two uniformed men stepped forward, briskly taking the General the arm. He didn't struggle – not in from of the few lingering cameras. It would be undignified. Instead he merely straightened his jacket, mind racing with excuses, each one less plausible than the last.

"I don't think he's going to be able to get out of is one." Greg said. He rested a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Nope." Wordy agreed.

_Thank you_. He thought, glancing between his team. He didn't have to say it. They already knew. As they always did.


	27. Heavy

_I've been struggling with this chapter for a while now. Because I feel like so much of this story has revolved around Sam realizing that family is more than blood, it's the people you surround yourself with by choice. It's the people that love and respect you unconditionally. It's the people who'd die to protect you. And I can't have him turn his back on all that - even if it were for love. I can't. It's just not the right ending for this story. So as much as I do love Jam, it's probably not what some of you were expecting or possibly hoping for. But I do hope you can see why I chose this and I still hope that you enjoy it. It's a bit bittersweet._

_I'm incredibly nervous to post this.  
_

_This isn't quite the end yet. I've got one more chapter to go and, as always, I'm keeping my options open for a followup epilogue._

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He wasn't sure how he'd known to find her here. Perhaps it was his gut. Perhaps it was the fact that, beyond anything or anyone in his life, he knew her. He understood her. She had a strong need inside her, one that would pull at her and tug and rip and yank, for home. Especially after such a day.

The cab he'd hailed from the hospital, after finally being discharged, pulled in front of Jules' two story townhouse. The street was quiet – too quiet to Sam's mind. He quickly paid the bill, not even wincing at the cross-town fare. Stepping out he cocked his head, listening for the sound of her drill, a saw. For the blistering kiss of classic, American rock that she heavily favoured. Jules renovated to feel grounded. To keep her hands and mind busy. But there were none of those familiar sounds.

He rapped on the door. There was no answer. He frowned. The lights were off all through the house. Glancing down at his watch he noted that they should have been debriefed already. He tried again, knocking louder this time. And again there was no response.

He readied himself to leave, hunched shoulders drooping slightly. He couldn't say what made him decide to check the back. But he found himself skirting around the narrow lane to the back yard, hard trailing against the firm brick wall. Ivy laced up the wall, the dried black leaves clinging to the grey skeleton of branches. But the green buds dotting those spindly vines promised of new life.

And when he turned the corner of the house the sight of her was like a blow to the gut.

She was kneeling in her garden, moonlight upon her. She'd shed the coolpants for a pair of jeans, so worn at the knee that they had faded to white. A bulky sweater protected her from the winter's cold. She had a pair of sheers in her hand, angrily lopping off the heads of dead plants. At her heels a monstrous bag of soil lay open, spilling it's earthy contents into the bed at her feet.

He moved forward, her name rising to his lips.

She whirled around, scrambling to her feet. She rubbed sweaty, dirty palms against the thighs of her denims, the rough fabric abrading her skin. The garden scissors dropped to the mossy grass with a dull thud.

"Jules." He said, stepping forward. She took a step back in response. His stomach curdled at the instinctual response. His heart shrank.

"You shouldn't be here." Her voice was too low. Too controlled. She was supposed to be angry. She was supposed to holler and scream and rant. He could deal with that Jules. He couldn't deal with this woman. This barely-composed woman with fragile eyes. She seemed bruised somehow. Saddened.

"Jules." He said again. He stepped forward. She took another step back, rapping smartly against the wooden fence behind her.

"Leave." She ordered. Her voice shook.

"You know I can't, Jules." He said, closing the distance between them.

"Please."

"I'm sorry." He said. It sounded pathetic, even to him.

"Don't be sorry. Just go." She said desperately.

"Jules." He needed to touch her. He needed to feel her skin against his. He brushed a hand down her cheek. She finally broke. Like a dam giving way, the anger rushed out.

"How could you? How could you do that to us? To me?" She beat her fists against his chest. He didn't raise a hand to protect himself. She shoved him back a step. "You ran into that house unarmed. You didn't call us. You don't ask for help. You just rush in there – where you knew there was a gunman. Then, when we finally get you safe. You turn your back on us and go back inside. God Sam. What the hell were you thinking?" She yelled.

He tried to comfort her, wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulder, but she angrily shrugged them off. He tried again, carefully drawing her to him. She twisted away, trying to wretch herself out of his arms. But he just gathered her back. She finally gave a small sob, burying her face against his shoulder. Her ear pressed against that solid heartbeat, the regular thrum steadying the rapid spinning of her head. He rocked the pair of them. Over and over again.

"I'm sorry Jules." He repeated, voice hoarse.

"I was so scared." She said.

"I know you were. I shouldn't have done that to you." He murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. I just … I had to help Zeb – I had to protect him. I couldn't watch another friend die. He needed me, Jules."

"I thought you were going to die today Sam." She admitted.

"I know you did." He told her.

"Today, for a split second, I had to think about what my world would be like without you, Sam, and it wasn't pretty. It was miserable, it was frightening and it was lonely. I don't know how I would be able to do it." She admitted.

"I'm sorry Jules. I'm sorry." He murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.

"I … I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do, Sam. It all came apart today."

"I know. I know Jules."

"I don't know what to say to you. I don't know what to do." She tried to push away from him – she couldn't think with him so close – with his heartbeat pounding in her ear and his scent pounding her brain with memories of their time together.

"It's okay." He assured her. He couldn't work up the will to let her go.

"It's not going to be okay! Stop saying that!"

"Jules." He settled his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her. "I found out today that my father is having an affair, that he's being trying to play puppet-master with my life, I was held at gunpoint by one of my closest friends and I essentially committed treason by leaking confidential military information to a media station. I thought my mother had been shot and listened to a brother in arms talk about having to kill a child. I had to relive the worst moments of my life and, goddamned it, created a few more along the way. And one thing got me through that. One thing."

Her throat was dry – she swallowed nervously. "What?" She asked finally.

"You."

"Sam." She protested.

"No. It's true. We've been dancing circles around it for months now. But here's the truth. I love you. I couldn't tell you when it started. I tried to stop it. I did. I tried to cut it off when we broke up. I couldn't make myself stop."

He smiled. Jules was practical to the bone. That was one of those unmistakable and enfuriating little character flaws. She was too rational. She needed to plan out each step. She never looked before she leaped. And right now he had to. He had to take that risk and jump.

"I looked at Katie and Zeb today and realized that I didn't want to be alone anymore. They almost walked away from each other. That's the crazy thing - they almost let go. I didn't want that to be me. I didn't want to look back in thirty years and realize that you were the only person I wanted to be with and I let you walk through my life without telling you."

She pressed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. But the salty tears were already trekking down her face. "But it won't work Sam. We can't be together and both stay on the team."

"I know. " He said.

"I love you too Sam." The words weren't as hard to say as she'd thought they would be.

"I was hoping you'd say that." His galloping heartbeat slowed. He tried to smile.

"What do you want me to do?" She asked, voice laced with exasperation and regret.

"Nothing, Jules. I came here to tell you that I love you. And that I'll wait."

"What?" Confused, she tried to pull back to look at him. He kept his arms snugly around her.

"I'll wait." He repeated, pressing his lips to her hair.

"I don't understand."

"We both know that you're on the fast-track for a promotion. With your negotiating skills and your shooting skills, you're a sure thing for next sergeant. And we both know you'll take it. Because that's something you've always wanted." He reached up with one hand, pushing her hair back, tucking ti behind her ear. He knew what he wanted. He supposed he'd always known. And, in the beginning, it hadn't mattered how he'd gotten it. It wouldn't have mattered about breaking the rules. It wouldn't have mattered to him. But somewhere along the line he'd come to need his team's respect. He'd come to love them. And he'd come to need them. And he knew that Jules needed them every bit as much as he did. So, as much as it hurt him to do it, he had to wait.

"I would. I do want that." She said, finally, after a long moment of silence.

"So I'll wait."

"Sam. We don't know when that could happen. It could ten years." She warned him.

"God I hope not." He muttered gruffly.

"I'm serious Sam."

"I know. And so I am. I'll wait. I'd wait ten years for you. I'd wait twenty." He'd wait an eternity for Julianna Callaghan.

"I want a family Sam." She said quietly.

God. He could see her, in his mind, her body heavy with their child. Pressing his hands against the mound of her stomach and feeling the surging kick of life. He could see a little girl with her eyes. A boy with her smile. He swallowed hard.

"And when the time is right we'll have one." He said slowly. He wanted that - a family, a home, children - as much as he wanted her.

She studied him for a minute. The air felt too quiet - too still. His skin too hot. He knew what he wanted her to say. He could almost her her say the words, echoing in his head. _Come on Jules_. _Come on. Give me the chance. Give me your trust._

"And I'll wait for you too." She said at last, a shy smile broaching her lips. "Stay. Tonight. Stay."

"Jules." Was all he could manage to say. He wanted to - more than he could say.

"Just tonight. We don't have to tell anyone. I just … I need you." She reached up, twining her hands into his hair and yanking him down for a bruising kiss. It was like everything he'd remembered - everything he'd stayed awake at night and cursed her for. The heat curdled in him stomach, shooting through his body like an arrow. His fingers tensed at her waist, instinctively pulling her closer. The kiss was the dream they'd both been waiting for. It was a thousand words they couldn't say. It was home.


	28. Endings and Beginnings

_Hi guys. Uhm. This chapter was a struggle for me. Mostly because I didn't want to write it and say goodbye to this story. I hope you enjoyed the ride. It's been quite a journey. I appreciate everyone who read, who reviewed, who edited and made suggestions. I appreciate it all. I can't believe the road's coming to an close. But I suppose everything ends eventually. Again, y'all have been wonderful. Thanks for your patience and your kindness. - Panda_

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_14 months later._

Sam groggily stumbled into the kitchen, yanking shut the shades against the glaring rays of the summer sun. Night shifts always threw off his schedule. He leaned across the kitchen counter, reaching into a cupboard for a plastic bowl. He shook the cereal box, pleased to hear kernels rattling against the cardboard. He hadn't run out yet. Score one for Team Braddock, he thought. Pouring it, he reached into the fridge for the milk

Twisting the cap of, he recoiled at the smell. Glancing down at the date printed in weak black letters against the plastic jug, he noted that it had expired. Two weeks ago. He supposed he'd been so busy he hadn't really noticed.

_Eh. _He thought, looking down at the sad, stale flakes. He'd eat it dry.

Crossing he ankles he reached to the remote for the TV. In the corner of the counter, the small set buzzed to life, flickering for a moment before he tapped its antennae and the picture resolved.

A blonde reporter in a form-fitted red suit filled the small screen. Her lips, painted the same scarlet as her jacket, curved in a small smile. If you could get past the killer curves and angelic face, you'd note, as Sam did, the ambitious flint to her eyes. The sharp, smug satisfaction.

"Vivian Snellgrove, here at the Ottawa military courthouse where former General Henry Braddock is being tried today, for charges of corruption and embezzlement. You may recall, little more than one year ago, the standoff which brought these injustices to light."

Sam's stomach gave an angry and violent churn. Disgusted, he dumped the contents of his bowl into the garbage can.

"Sam!" The front door crashed open. There was a burst of footsteps, like gunshots. Jules shot through the kitchen door. "Sam!" She launched herself at him.

Laughing he caught her, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around in a narrow, dizzying circle. "I know. I'm excited too. The bastard's getting what's coming to him." He pressed a smacking kiss on her upturned face. He was careful to keep it light – keep it simple and friendly. _Just a few more months _he reassured himself, carefully stepping back. _With any luck, it would be just a handful of months. Not that much longer to wait. _ He hoped.

Not much longer until he could kiss her like he wanted. Until he could run his hair through her hair. Until he would wake one morning with her beside him. He'd feel her skin against his. God it was driving him mad.

He memorized the fit of her body against his, burned into his brain, before slowly and regretfully stepping back.

"What?" She asked, brow wrinkling with concern as she seemed to take in what he'd said. "What are you talking about?"

"My father." He replied automatically, nodding towards the small screen. "What are you talking about?" He asked.

"Your father? What about your father?" She glanced over at the TV where the station had switched to archive footage of the Vaughann home where Sam had been held hostage. Zeb's voice murmured, on low volume, about protecting his brothers-in-arms. "His trial started today! I'd completely forgotten!" She exclaimed.

Sam reached across the counter, flicking the TV off. "It doesn't matter to me anymore. It's been over for a long time. What were you saying?" He asked. She was practically glowing with excitement – the energy radiated through her.

"They're creating a Team Six!" She said breathlessly. She leaned up, pressing her lips to his again – just one greedy little kiss – she couldn't stop herself. Wouldn't for another sixty years. "They've asked me to be lead negotiator."

The grin was immediate, spreading across his face until he was sure it would split in two. Was it truly possible for anyone to be so happy? He wondered, his heart leaping in his chest. "Starting when?" He brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to her palm. _Thank god, _he thought. _Thank god._

"Day after tomorrow. They're giving me Donna as lead tactician, Beckett from Team Two and Richard from Four. Recruiting for their replacements and the other three positions on my unit start Monday."

"That's amazing." He swelled with pride. _Sergeant Julianna Callaghan_. There could be no doubt that she deserved it – every single inch. She was the most scarily competent woman he'd ever met and, when lives were on the line, there was no one he trusted more.

He'd waited for such a long time, biding his distance. Knowing she was doing the same. He'd held back, trying to trim the feelings so they wouldn't show. They wouldn't get in the way. They wouldn't strangle him with need. And the fight had been exhausting. And now, quite simply, he didn't have to. The relief staggered him.

"We won't be on the same team anymore." She said slowly. She had to suppress the urge to scruff her feet.

"Nope." Sam said. He yanked her against him – hard. The kiss was bruising – blistering. The heat shot through him, burning bright. The taste of her ripped through like an explosion, dragging him under. Her hands twined in his hair, lips urgently pressing him on. He had a hunger for her - a gnawing kind of need.

"I waited for you Sam." Jules said, resting her forehead against his, brown eyes hidden beneath the heavy fringe of lashes. He placed his hand on her heart, feeling her chest struggle to rise with each ragged breath. Her pulse pounded beneath his fingers, straining against his hand. He could hear the rasp of his own unsteady breaths, faintly, and knew he was no better prepared for this than she was.

"I know." He said, simply. And it hadn't been easy for either of them - working alongside each other. Seeing what you couldn't have, there in front of you, every single day. The breathless moments after shots were fired waiting to hear those two little works: no harm. Each day falling just a little bit more and a little bit faster. And each day having to reign it back just a little bit harder.

He pressed his lips to hers again. Gentle, this time, and soft. His hand cupped her face, lifting it to his, his thumb gently trailing a circle against her jaw. Her hands pulled him close and the feel of his skin against hers was enough to set blood on fire, raging through her veins. It flooded her. The need, the want and, best of all, the love.

"I love you Jules." He murmured, burying his face in her hair as he crushed her against his chest. Face pressed to his shoulder, her lips curved in a smile.

"I'm scared." She said, looking up at him – brown eyes on blue.

"Me too. A little bit." He admitted.

"I don't want to screw things up. I'm not very good at relationships."

"Neither am I." He shrugged. "But we'll make it work."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. I want a life with you – a family and a home, Jules."

Her hand instinctively fell to her stomach. She imagined what it would be like to reach down one day and feel a life there. To watch her belly swell with their child. His hand joined hers, locking fingers.

"I do too." She murmured.

"We've waited long enough Jules." Sam said, smiling. "Let's leap before we look, Jules. Let's be brave."

"I'm ready for it this time. We both are." She said, rocking back on her heels. "Let's do it." Rising up on her tip-toes she pressed her lips to his. It was more than a kiss. It was a promise.


End file.
